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THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


CEaition 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 


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1870,  1872,  1874,  1876,  1878,  1881,  1883,  1884,  1886,  and  1888, 

BY  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  FIELDS,  OSGOOD  &  CO.,  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO., 
AND  JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 

All  rights  reserved. 


GIFT 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  II.  0.  Houghton  &  Company. 


NOTE  BY  THE  AUTHOR 

TO  THE  EDITION  OF   1857. 

IN  these  volumes,  for  the  first  time,  a  complete  collection  of  my  poetical 
•writings  has  been  made.  While  it  is  satisfactory  to  know  that  these  scat 
tered  children  of  my  brain  have  found  a  home,  I  cannot  but  regret  that  I 
have  been  unable,  by  reason  of  illness,  to  give  that  attention  to  their  revis 
ion  and  arrangement,  which  respect  for  the  opinions  of  others  and  my  own 
afterthought  and  experience  demand. 

That  there  are  pieces  in  this  collection  which  I  would  "  willingly  let  die," 
I  am  free  to  confess.  But  it  is  now  too  late  to  disown  them,  and  I  must 
submit  to  the  inevitable  penalty  of  poetical  as  well  as  other  sins.  There 
are  others,  intimately  connected  with  the  author's  life  and  times,  which  owe 
their  tenacity  of  vitality  to  the  circumstances  under  which  they  were  writ 
ten,  and  the  events  by  which  they  were  suggested. 

The  long  poem  of  Mogg  Megone  was  in  a  great  measure  composed  in 
early  life  ;  and  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  its  subject  is  not  such  as 
the  writer  would  have  chosen  at  any  subsequent  period. 

J.  G.  W. 

AMESBUBT,  ISthBd  mo.,  1357. 


291 


PROEM. 


I  LOVE  the  old  melodious  lays 
Which  softly  melt  the  ages  through, 

The  songs  of  Spenser's  golden  days, 

Arcadian  Sidney's  silvery  phrase, 
Sprinkling  our  noon  of  time  with  freshest  morning  dew. 

Yet,  vainly  in  my  quiet  hours 
To  breathe  their  marvellous  notes  I  try  ; 

I  feel  them,  as  the  leaves  and  flowers 

In  silence  feel  the  dewy  showers, 
And  drink  with  glad  still  lips  the  blessing  of  the  sky. 

The  rigor  of  a  frozen  clime, 
The  harshness  of  an  untaught  ear, 

The  jarring  words  of  one  whose  rhyme 

Beat  often  Labor's  hurried  time, 
Or  Duty's  rugged  march  through  storm  and  strife,  are  heret 

Of  mystic  beauty,  dreamy  grace, 
No  rounded  art  the  lack  supplies  ; 

Unskilled  the  subtle  lines  to  trace, 

Or  softer  shades  of  Nature's  face, 
I  view  her  common  forms  with  unanointed  eyes. 

Nor  mine  the  seer-like  power  to  show 
The  secrets  of  the  heart  and  mind  ; 

To  drop  the  plummet-line  below 

Our  common  world  of  joy  and  woe, 
A  more  intense  despair  or  brighter  hope  to  find. 

Yet  here  at  least  an  earnest  sense 
Of  human  right  and  weal  is  shown  j 

A  hate  of  tyranny  intense, 

And  hearty  in  its  vehemence, 
As  if  my  brother's  pain  and  sorrow  were  my  own. 

0  Freedom  !  if  to  me  belong 

Nor  mighty  Milton's  gift  divine, 

Nor  Marvell's  wit  and  graceful  song, 
Still  with  a  love  as  deep  and  strong 

As  theirs,  I  lay,  like  them,  my  best  gifts  on  thy  shrine  ! 

&MESBURY,  1M  WO.,  1847 


CONTENTS. 


HOGG  MEGONR 

Parti.          ...............        .  1 

Part  II  .................  7 

Part  in  .................  12 

THB  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK  ..............  15 

I.    The  Merrimack  ..............  18 

ii.     The  Bashaba                                     •        .........  18 

ni.    The  Daughter      .............        .20 

IV.    The  Wedding         .............  21 

v.    The  New  Home  ..............  22 

vi.    At  Pennacook         .............  23 

vii.    The  Departure    ..............  26 

vra.     Song  of  Indian  Wome«  ............  25 

LEGENDARY. 

The  Merrimack     ...............  26 

The  Norsemen          ..............  27 

Cassandra  Southwick  .....        .........  28 

Funeral  Tree  of  the  Sokokis    ............  31 

St.  John       ................  32 

Pentucket        ...............  34 

The  Familist's  Hymn    ..............  35 

The  Fountain          ............        .        .  36 

The  Exiles    ................  37 

The  New  Wife  and  the  Old      ............  40 

foiCEs  OF  FREEDOM. 

Touesaint  L'Ouverture        .............  41 

The  Slave-Ships        ..........        ....  43 

Stanzas.    Our  Countrymen  in  Chains         ..........  45 

The  Yankee  Girl       ..............  46 

ToW.  L.  G  ................  47 

Song  of  the  Free      .....        .        ........  47 

The  Hunters  of  Men    ..............  48 

Clerical  Oppressors  ..............  49 

The  Christian  Slave      ..............  50 

Stanzas  for  the  Times      .............  51 

Lines,  written  on  reading  the  Message  of  Governor  Ritner,  of  Pennsylvania,  1836   .        .  52 

The  Pastoral  Letter          .............  53 

Lines,  written  for  the  Meeting  of  the  Antislavery  Society,  at  Chatham  Street  Chapel, 

N.Y.,1834  ...............  6* 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Lines,  written  for  the  Celebration  of  the  Third  Anniversary  of  British  Emancipation  ,1837  56 

Lines,  written  for  the  Anniversary  of  the  First  of  August,  at  Milton,  1846   ...  55 

The  Farewell  of  a  Virginia  Slave  Mother  to  her  Daughters  sold  into  Southern  Bondage  .  56 

The  Moral  Warfore 57 

The  World's  Convention 57 

New  Hampshire 59 

The  New  Year :  addressed  to  the  Patrons  of  the  Pennsylvania  Freeman          ...  60 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia 62 

The  Relic ,64 

The  Branded  Hand 64 

Texas 66 

To  Faneuil  Hall 67 

To  Massachusetts       .                         67 

The  Pine-Tree 68 

Lines,  suggested  hy  a  Visit  to  the  City  of  Washington  in  the  12th  month  of  1845            .  68 

Lines,  from  a  Letter  to  a  young  Clerical  Friend 70 

Yorktown 70 

Lines,  written  in  the  Book  of  a  Friend 71 

Psean 73 

To  the  Memory  of  Thomas  Shipley 74 

To  a  Southern  Statesman 74 

Lines,  on  the  Adoption  of  Pinckney's  Resolutions 75 

The  Curse  of  the  Charter-Breakers 76 

The  Slaves  of  Martinique       .                77 

The  Crisis 79 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  Knight  of  St.  John 81 

The  Holy  Land       .............  81 

Palestine 82 

Ezekiel 83 

The  Wife  of  Manoah  to  her  Husband 85 

The  Cities  of  the  Plain 86 

The  Crucifixion 86 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem 87 

Hymns 88 

The  Female  Martyr 90 

The  Frost  Spirit 91 

The  Vaudois  Teacher .  91 

The  Call  of  the  Christian 92 

My  Soul  and  I 92 

To  a  Friend,  on  her  Return  from  Europe 95 

The  Angel  of  Patience 96 

Follen 96 

To  the  Reformers  of  England 97 

The  Quaker  of  the  Olden  Time 98 

The  Reformer 

The  Prisoner  for  Debt 99 

Lines,  written  on  reading  Pamphlets  published  by  Clergymen  against  the  Abolition  of 

the  Gallows 100 

The  Human  Sacrifice 102 

Randolph  of  Roanoke 104 

Democracy     .... 106 

To  Ronge 106 

ChalkleyHall         . 107 


CONTENTS.  vii 

ToJ.  P 108 

The  Cypress-Tree  of  Ceylon 108 

A  Dream  of  Summer 109 

To 109 

Leggett's  Monument  ...                 • Ill 

LABOR,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Dedication 112 

The  Ship-Builders .112 

The  Shoemakers 113 

The  Drovers 114 

The  Fishermen .  115 

TheHuskers           .............         .  116 

The  Corn-Song .  117 

The  Lumbermen     ......                .......  118 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  Angels  of  Buena  Vista        ....                119 

Forgiveness      ........ 121 

Barclay  of  Ury 121 

What  the  Voice  said 122 

To  Delaware .  123 

Worship 123 

The  Demon  of  the  Study 124 

The  Pumpkin 126 

Extract  from  "  A  New  England  Legend  " 127 

Hampton  Beach 127 

Lines,  written  on  hearing  of  the  Death  of  Silas  Wright  of  New  York       .        .        .        .128 

Lines,  accompanying  Manuscripts  presented  to  a  Friend 129 

The  Reward 130 

Raphael 130 

Lucy  Hooper 131 

Channing 132 

To  the  Memory  of  Charles  B.  Storrs 133 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  S.  0.  Torrey 134 

A  Lament 135 

Daniel  Wheeler 136 

Daniel  Neall 137 

To  my  Friend  on  the  Death  of  his  Sister 138 

Gone                  „       , 139 

The  Lake-side 139 

The  Hill-top 140 

On  receiving  an  Eagle's  Quill  from  Lake  Superior 141 

Memories 141 

The'LegendofSt.  Mark 142 

The  Well  of  Loch  Maree    .......        t 143 

To  my  Sister „  144 

Autumn  Thoughts 144 

Calef  in  Boston.  — 1692 144 

To  Pius  IX .  145 

Elliott 146 

Ichabod! .146 

The  Christian  Tourists .  147 

The  Men  of  Old 148 

The  Peace  Convention  at  Brussels        .       .       •       .                .       «        .       »        .  149 


viil  CONTENTS. 

The  Wish  of  To-Day 150 

Our  State 150 

All 's  well .151 

Seed-Time  and  Harvest 151 

To  A.  K 151 

THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  Chapel  of  the  Hermits *53 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Questions  of  Life 157 

The  Prisoners  of  Naples 159 

Moloch  in  State  Street .  160 

The  Peace  of  Europe.  —  1  .-        .         .  161 

Wordsworth       . 162 

To 162 

In  Peace 162 

Benedicite 163 

Pictures 163 

Derne 164 

Astrsea 165 

Invocation 166 

The  Cross 166 

Eva 166 

To  Fredrika  Bremer 167 

April 167 

Stanzas  for  the  Tunes.  — 1850 168 

A  Sabbath  Scene 168 

Remembrance 170 

The  Poor  Voter  on  Election  Day 170 

Trust          .    • 170 

Kathleen 171 

First-day  Thoughts 172 

Kossuth 172 

To  my  old  Schoolmaster 173 

FEE  PANORAMA,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  Panorama 175 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Summer  by  the  Lakeside 183 

The  Hermit  of  the  Thebaid 185 

Burns 186 

William  Forster 187 

Eantoul     .  188 

The  Dream  of  PioNono 189 

Tauler -190 

Lines 192 

The  Voices I92 

The  Hero 

My  Dream 195 

The  Barefoot  Boy 

Flowers  in  Winter * 

The  Rendition        .  197 

Lines.  198 


CONTENTS.  IX 


The  Fruit-Gift 


198 


A  Memory 

IV,  0.8.  199 


f  he  Kansas  Emigrants 


200 


Song  of  Slaves  in  the  Deaert ....200 

Lines 200 

The  New  Exodus •  201 

TheHaschish '  20i 

BALLADS. 

MaryGarrin ^ 

MaudMuller 204 

The  Ranger 

LATER  POEMS. 

The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn 208 

The  Mayflowers 211 

Burial  of  Barbour 211 

To  Pennsylvania 212 

The  Pass  of  the  Sierra 212 

The  Conquest  of  Finland 213 

A  Lay  of  Old  Time 214 

What  of  the  Day? 214 

The  First  Flowers 215 

My  Namesake 215 

HOME  BALLADS. 

The  Witch's  Daughter .  218 

The  Garrison  of  Cape  Ann 221 

The  Prophecy  of  Samuel  Sewall 223 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride 225 

Telling  the  Bees 226 

The  Sycamores 227 

The  Double-Headed  Snake  of  Newbury 228 

The  Swan  Song  of  Parson  Avery 229 

The  Truce  of  Piscataqua 231 

My  Playmate 233 

POBMS  AND  LYRICS. 

The  Shadow  and  the  Light 234 

The  Gift  of  Tritemius 235 

The  Eve  of  Election 236 

The  Over-Heart 237 

In  Remembrance  of  Joseph  Sturge 238 

Trinitas 239 

The  Old  Burying-Ground 240 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow 241 

My  Psalm  .                       242 

Le  Marais  du  Cygne 243 

"  The  Rock  "  in  El  Ghor 244 

On  a  Prayer-Book 244 

To  J.  T.  F.         .                245 

ThePalm-Tree 246 

lanes  for  the  Burns  Festival 24." 

The  Red  River  Voyageur ......  *J7 


X  CONTENTS. 

Kenoza  Lake , -248 

To  G.  B.  C 248 

The  Sisters ...«•.  249 

Lines  for  an  Agricultural  Exhibition     •       •••.....,  249 

The  Preacher 249 

The  Quaker  Alumni       •        ••••......,  264 

Brown  of  Ossawatomie 268 

From  Perugia _        .......  258 

For  an  Autumn  Festival 26C 

IN  WAR  TIME. 

Thy  Will  be  done 261 

A  Word  for  the  Hour 261 

"  Bin  feste  Burg  istunserGott" ,        .262 

To  John  C.  Fremont .263 

The  Watchers 263 

To  Englishmen 264 

Astraea  at  the  Capitol 265 

The  Battle  Autumn  of  1862 265 

Mithridates  at  Chios 266 

The  Proclamation           . 266 

Anniversary  Poem      .. 267 

At  Port  Royal 268 

Barbara  Frietchie 269 

BALLADS. 

Cobbler  Keezar's  Vision 270 

Amy  Wentworth 273 

The  Countess 275 

OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Naples.  — 1860 277 

The  Summons 278 

The  Waiting 278 

Mountain  Pictures. 

I.  Franconia  from  the  Pemigewasset 278 

n.  Monadnock  from  Wachuset 279 

Our  River 280 

Andrew  Rykman's  Prayer 281 

The  Cry  of  a  Lost  Soul .283 

Italy .  283 

The  River  Path .  284 

A  Memorial.     M.  A.  C 284 

Hymn  sung  at  Christmas  by  the  Scholars  of  St.  Helena's  Island,  S.  C.  .        .        .        .285 


Bsow  BOUND 


l>v;  TJCNT  ON  THE  BEACH,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  Tent  on  the  Beach ,294 

The  Wreck  of  Rivermouth 297 

The  Grave  by  the  Lake      ....                299 

The  Brother  of  Mercy 303 

The  Changeling          ....                 304 

f  he  Maids  of  Attitash   .                ....                305 

Kallundborg  Church         .                  •        •  307 


CONTENTS.  XI . 

The  Dead  Ship  of  Harpswell 309 

The  Palatine 310 

Abraham  Davenport 312 

NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

The  Mantle  of  St.  John  De  Matha .  314. 

What  the  Birds  said 315 

LausDeo! .  316 

The  Peace  Autumn 317 

To  the  Thirty-Ninth  Congress 317 

OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

The  Eternal  Goodness 318 

Our  Master 319 

TheVanishers 321 

Revisited .  321 

The  Common  Question 322 

Bryant  on  his  Birthday 323 

Hymn  for  the  Opening  of  Thomas  Starr  King's  House  of  Worship,  1864         .  .323 

Thomas  Starr  King 324 

A.M0NG  THE  HlLLS,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Prelude 326 

Among  the  Hills 327 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  Clear  Vision 331 

TheDoleofJarlThorkell 332 

The  Two  Rabbis 333 

The  Meeting 334 

The  Answer 337 

G.  L.  S 338 

Freedom  in  Brazil 338 

Divine  Compassion 339 

Lines  on  a  Fly-Leaf 339 

Hymn  for  the  House  of  Worship  at  Georgetown 340 

MIRIAM,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

To  Frederick  A.  P.  Barnard 341 

Miriam 341 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Norembega 347 

Nauhaught,  the  Deacon •  348 

In  School-Days 350 

Garibaldi 350 

After  Election 351 

My  Triumph ,35! 

The  Hive  at  Gettysburg 352 

Howard  at  Atlanta 353 

To  Lydia  Maria  Child 353 

The  Prayer-Seeker 354 

POEMS  FOR  PUBLIC  OCCASIONS. 

A  Spiritual  Manifestation  . 355 

"The  Laurels" ..366 

Hymn 357 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Francis  Daniel  Pastorius »       .        .  858 

Prelude ' *    .  359 

The  Pennsylvania  Pilgrim ggO 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  Pageant .        .  369 

The  Singer 371 

Chicago .       .  872 

My  Birthday 372 

The  Brewing  of  Soma f  373 

A  Woman m  374. 

Disarmament .  374 

The  Robin 375 

The  Sisters .375 

Marguerite     ....• 37$ 

King  Volmer  and  Elsie 377 

The  Three  Bells 379 

HAZEL  BLOSSOMS. 

SUMNER 3g\ 

HAZEL  BLOSSOMS. 

The  Prayer  of  Agassk 383 

The  Friend's  Burial 384 

John  Underbill .385 

In  Quest 387 

A  Sea  Dream ....  388 

A  Mystery 389 

Conductor  Bradley .  390 

Child-Songs 391 

The  Golden  Wedding  of  Longwood 391 

Kinsman 392 

Vesta 392 

The  Healer 393 

A  Christmas  Carmen 393 

Hymn 394 

POEMS  BY  ELIZABETH  H.  WHITTIER. 

The  Dream  of  Argyle 394 

Lines  written  on  the  Departure  of  Joseph  Sturge 395 

John  Quincy  Adams          .............  396 

Dr.  Kane  in  Cuba 396 

Lady  Franklin .-''     .        .  396 

Night  and  Death 397 

The  Meeting  Waters 397 

The  Wedding  Veil 898 

Charity 398 

THE  VISION  OF  ECHARD,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  Vision  of  Echard 399 

The  Witch  of  Wenham 401 

Sunset  on  the  Bearcamp 404 

The  Seeking  of  the  Waterfall 404 

June  on  the  Merrimac                  406 


CONTENTS.  X11J 

Hymn  of  the  Bunkers * 4°7 

In  the "  Old  South "     .         .  408 

Lexington ....  409 

Centennial  Hymn 409 


Thiers 


410 


Fitz-Greene  Halleck 4 

William  Francis  Bartlett .411 

The  Two  Angels .         .        •        .  4 

The  Library 412 

The  Henchman 412 

King  Solomon  and  the  Ants 413 

Red  Riding-Hood • 413 

The  Pressed  Gentian 

Overruled 414 

Hymn 415 

Giving  and  Taking 41& 

"  I  was  a  Stranger,  and  ye  took  me  in  " 415 

At  School-Close 416 

At  Eventide 416 

The  Problem .417 

Response 417 

THE  KING'S  MISSIVE,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  Prelude 419 

The  King:s  Missive 418 

St.  Martin's  Summer .. 4*20 

The  Dead  Feast  of  the  Kol-Folk 421 

The  Lost  Occasion 422 

The  Emancipation  Group 423 

The  Jubilee  Singers 423 

Within  the  Gate          . 423 

The  Khan's  Devil 424 

Abrain  Morrison ..  426 

Voyage  of  the  Jettie 426 

Our  Autocrat 428 

Garrison ,428 

Bayard  Taylor 429 

A  Name          ..'... 430 

The  Minister's  Daughter 430 

My  Trust .  431 

Trailing  Arbutus *  431 

By  their  Works       . ,        ,  432 

The  Word    .  0  »       ,        .        .  482 

The  Book •        •«•••••'•'„  432 

Requirement 432 

Help 433 

Utterance 433 

INSCRIPTIONS. 

On  a  Sun-Dial 433 

On  a  Fountain     --•«•••••••...,,  433 


Xiv  CONTENTS. 

ORIENTAL  MAXIMS. 

The  Inward  Judge            .        > 433 

Laying  up  Treasure • 434 

Conduct 434 

THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS 

To  H.  P.  S .        .        .434 

The  Bay  of  Seven  Islands 435 

How  the  Women  went  from  Dover 437 

A  Summer  Pilgrimage 439 

The  Rock-Tomb  of  Bradore 440 

Storm  on  Lake  Asquam 441 

The  Wishing  Bridge 441 

The  Mystic's  Christmas 442 

What  the  Traveler  said  at  Sunset 442 

A  Greeting             443 

Wilson 444 

In  Memory 444 

The  Poet  and  the  Children       ...                .  446 

Rabbi  Ishmael 445 

Valuation          ...                 446 

Winter  Roses 446 

Hymn 446 

Godspeed 447 

At  Last 447 

Our  Country • 448 

The  "  Story  of  Ida  " 449 

An  Autograph • 449 

SAINT  GREGORY'S  GCEST  AND  RECENT  POEMS. 

Saint  Gregory's  Guest 450 

Revelation 451 

Adjustment 452 

The  Wood  Giant 452 

The  Homestead 453 

Birchbrook  Mill .454 

How  the  Robin  came 455 

Sweet  Fern    ....                455 

Banished  from  Massachusetts 456 

The  Two  Elizabeths 457 

The  Reunion 459 

Requital 459 

The  Light  that  is  felt 460 

The  Two  Loves 460 

An  Easter  Flower  Gift 460 

Mulford 460 

An  Artist  of  the  Beautiful 461 

Hymns  of  the  Brahmo  Somaj 461 

NOTES 463 

INDEX , 4'S 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTKATIONS. 


PORTRAIT  OF  JOHN  G.  WHITTIER Frontispiece 

"  The  solemn  pines  along  its  shore  •' 31 

"  And  throned  on  her  hills  sits  Jerusalem  yet  " 83 

"  Down  the  wild  March  flood  shall  bear  them  » 118 

Wordsworth's  Grave    . 162 

The  last  walk  in  autumn ,  208 

Snow-Bound 286 

"  And  the  cloud  of  her  soul  was  lifted  " ,305 

"  On  woods  that  dream  of  bloom  " ,  351 

"  A  jewelled  elm-tree  avenue  ;' ,  369 

"  And  still  the  water  sang  the  sweet 

Glad  song  ;' ,  405 

Edwin  P.  Whipple ....  434 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


[The  story  of  MOGG  MEGONE  has  b«en  considered  by  the  author  only  as  a  framework  for  sketches 
of  the  riceuery  of  New  England,  and  of  its  early  inhabitants.  In  portraying  the  Indian  character, 
be  has  followed,  as  closely  as  his  story  would  admit,  the  rough  but  natural  delineations  of  Church, 
May  hew,  Charievoix,  and  Roger  Williams;  and  in  so  doing  he  has  necessarily  discarded  much  of 
the  romance  which  poets  and  novelists  have  thrown  around  the  ill-fated  red  man.] 


PAET   I. 

WHO  stands  on  that  cliff,  like  a  figure 

of  stone, 
Unmoving  and  tall  in  the  light  of  the 

sky, 

"Where  the  spray  of  the  cataract  spar 
kles  on  high, 

lonely  and    sternly,    save   Mogg    Me- 
gone  ? 1 

Close  to  the  verge  of  the  rock  is  he, 
While  beneath  him  the  Saco  its  work 
is  doing, 

Htirrying  down  to  its  grave,  the  sea, 
And  slow  through  the  rock  its  path 
way  hewing  ! 

Far  down,  through  the  mist  of  the  fall 
ing  river, 

Which  rises  up  like  an  incense  ever, 

The  splintered  points  of  the  crags  are 
seen, 

With  water  howling  and  vexed  between, 

While  the  scooping  whirl  of  the  pool  be 
neath 

Seems  an  open  throat,  with  its  granite 
teeth  ! 

But  Mogg  Megone  nerer  trembled  yet 
Wherever  his  eye  or  his  foot  was  set. 
He  is  watchful  :  each  form  in  the  moon 
light  dim, 

Of  rock  or  of  tree,  is  seen  of  him  : 
He  listens  ;    each  sound  from   afar  is 

caught, 

The  faintest  shiver  of  leaf  and  limb  : 
But  he  sees  not  the  waters,  which  foam 
and  fret, 


Whose  moonlit  spray  has  his  moccasin 

wet,  — 
And  the  roar  of  their  rushing,  he  hears 

it  not. 

The  moonlight,  through  the  open  bough 
Of  the  gnarl'd  beech,   whose  naked 

root 

Coils  like  a  serpent  at  his  foot, 
Falls,  checkered,  on  the  Indian's  brow. 
His  head  is  bare,  save  only  where 
Waves  in  the  wind  one  lock  of  hair, 
Reserved  for  him,  whoe'er  he  be, 
More  mighty  than  Megone  in  strife, 
When  breast  to  breast  and  knee  to 

knee, 

Above  the  fallen  warrior's  life 
Gleams,  quick  and  keen,  the  scalping- 
knife. 

Megone  hath  his  knife  and  hatchet  and 
gun, 

And  his  gaudy  and  tasselled  blanket 
on  : 

His  knife  hath  a  handle  with  gold  inlaid, 

And  magic  words  on  its  polished  blade,  — 

'T  was  the  gift  of  Castine  2  to  Mogg  Me 
gone, 

For  a  scalp  or  twain  from  the  Yengees 
torn  : 

His  gun  was  the  gift  of  the  Tarrantine, 
And  Modocawando's  wives  had  strung 

The  brass  and  the  beads,  which  tinkle 
and  shine 

On  the  polished  breach,  and  broad  bright 

line 
Of  beaded  wampum  around  it  hung. 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


What    seeks    Megone  ?      His    foes  are 

near,  — 

Grey  Jocelyn's  3  eye  is  never  sleeping, 
A-nd    the   garrison   lights  are    burning 

clear, 
Where  Phillips'  *  men  their  watch  are 

keeping. 
Let  him  hie  him  away  through  the  dank 

river  fog, 

Never  rustling  the  boughs  nor  dis 
placing  the  rocks, 
For  the  eyes  and  the  ears  which  are 

watching  for  Mogg 

Are  keener  than  those  of  the  wolf  or 
the  fox. 

He  starts,  —  there  's  a  rustle  among  the 

leaves  : 
Another, — the   click   of  his  gun  is 

heard  ! 

A  footstep,  —  is  it  the  step  of  Cleaves, 
With   Indian  blood  on   his   English 

sword  ? 
Steals  Harmon  5  down  from  the  sands  of 

York, 

With  hand  of  iron  and  foot  of  cork  ? 
Has  Scamman,  versed  in  Indian  wile, 
For  vengeance  left  his  vine-hung  isle  ? 6 
Hark  !  at  that  whistle,  soft  and  low, 

How  lights  the  eye  of  Mogg  Megone  ! 

A  smile  gleams  o'er  his  dusky  brow,  — 

"  Boon  welcome,  Johnny  Bonython  !  " 

Out  steps,  with  cautious  foot  and  slow, 
And  quick,  keen  glances  to  and  fro, 

The  hunted  outlaw,  Bonython  !  7 
A  low,  lean,  swarthy  man  is  he, 
With  blanket-garb  and  buskined  knee, 

And  naught  of  English  fashion  on  ; 
For  he  hates  the  race  from  whence  he 

sprung, 

And  he  couches  his  words  in  the  Indian 
tongue. 

"Hush, — let    the   Sachem's  voice  be 

weak  ; 

The  water-rat  shall  hear  him  speak,  — 
The  owl  shall  whoop  in  the  white  man's 

ear, 
That  Mogg  Megone,  with  his  scalps,  is 

here  ! " 
He    pauses,  —  dark,    over    cheek    and 

brow, 

A  flush,  as  of  shame,  is  stealing  now  : 
"  Sachem  !  "  he  says,  "  let  me  have  the 

land, 
Which  stretches  away  upon  either  hand, 


As  far  about  as  my  feet  can  stray 
In  the  half  of  a  gentle  summer's  day, 
From  the  leaping  brook  8  to  the  Saco 

river,  — 
And  the  fair-haired  girl,  thou  hast  sought 

of  me, 

Shall  sit  in  the  Sachem's  wigwam,  and  be 
The  wife  of  Mogg  Megone  forever." 

There  's  a  sudden  light  in  the  Indian's 

glance, 
A  moment's  trace  of  powerful  feeling, 

Of  love  or  triumph,  or  both  perchance, 
Over  his  proud,  calm  features  steal 
ing. 

"The  words  of  my  father  are  very  good  ; 

He  shall  have  the  land,  and  water,  and 
wood  ; 

And  he  who  harms  the  Sagamore  John, 

Shall  feel  the  knife  of  Mogg  Megone  ; 

But  the  fawn  of  the  Yengees  shall  sleep 
on  my  breast, 

And  the  bird  of  the  clearing  shall  sing 
in  my  nest." 

' '  But,  father !  "  —  and  the  Indian's  han d 

Falls  gently  on  the  white  man's  arm, 
And  with  a  smile  as  shrewdly  bland 

As  the  deep  voice  is  slow  and  calm,  — 
"  Where  is  my  father's  singing-bird,  — 

The  sunny  eye,  and  sunset  hair  ? 
I  know  I  have  my  father's  word, 

And  that  his  word  is  good  and  fair  ; 

But  will  my  father  tell  me  where 
Megone    shall    go    and    look    for    his 

bride  ?  — 
For  he  sees  her  not  by  her  father's  side." 

The  dark,  stern  eye  of  Bonython 

F]ashes  over  the  features  of  Mogg  Me 
gone, 
In  one  of  those  glances  which  search 

within  ; 

But  the  stolid  calm  of  the  Indian  alone 
Keanains  where  the  trace  of  emotion 

has  been. 
"Does  the   Sachem  doubt?    Let  him 

go  with  me, 

And  the  eyes  of  the  Sachem  his  bride 
shall  see." 

Cautious  and  slow,  with  pauses  oft, 
And  watchful  eyes  and  whispers  soft, 
The  twain  are  stealing  through  the  wood, 
Leaving  the  downward-rushing  flood, 
Whose  deep  and  solemn  roar  behind 
Grows  fainter  on  the  evening  wind. 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


3 


Hark  !  —  is  that  the  angry  howl 

Of  the  wolf,  the  hills  among  ?  — 
Or  the  hooting  of  the  owl, 

On  his  leafy  cradle  swung  ?  — 
Quickly  glancing,  to  and  fro, 
Listening  to  each  sound  they  go 
Bound  the  columns  of  the  pine, 

Indistinct,  in  shadow,  seeming 
Like  some  old  and  pillared  shrine  ; 
With  the  soft  and  white  moonshine, 
Round  the  foliage-tracery  shed 
Of  each  column's  branching  head, 

For  its  lamps  of  worship  gleaming  ! 
And  the  sounds  awakened  there, 

In  the  pine-leaves  fine  and  small, 

Soft  and  sweetly  musical, 
By  the  fingers  of  the  air, 
For  the  anthem's  dying  fall 
Lingering  round  some  temple's  wall  ! 
Niche  and  cornice  round  and  round 
Wailing  like  the  ghost  of  sound  ! 
Is  not  Nature's  worship  thus, 

Ceaseless  ever,  going  on  ? 
Hath  it  not  a  voice  for  us 

In  the  thunder,  or  the  tone 
Of  the  leaf-harp  faint  and  small, 

Speaking  to  the  unsealed  ear 

Words  of  blended  love  and  fear, 
Of  the  mighty  Soul  of  all  ? 

Naught  had  the  twain  of  thoughts  like 

these 
As    they    wound    along    through    the 

crowded  trees, 

Where  never  had  rung  the  axeman's  stroke 
On  the  gnarled  trunk  of  the  rough-barked 

oak  ;  — 

Climbing  the  dead  tree's  mossy  log, 
Breaking  the  mesh  of  the  bramble  fine, 
Turning  aside  the  wild  grapevine, 
And  lightly  crossing  the  quaking  bog 
Whose  surface  shakes  at  the  leap  of  the 

frog, 
And  out  of  whose  pools  the  ghostly  fog 

Creeps  into  the  chill  moonshine  ! 
Yet,  even  that  Indian's  ear  had  heard 
The  preaching  of  the  Holy  Word  : 
Sanchekantacket's  isle  of  sand 
Was  once  his  father's  hunting  land, 
Where  zealous  Hiacoomes  9  stood,  — 
The  wild  apostle  of  the  wood, 
Shook  from  his  soul  the  fear  of  harm, 
And  trampled  on  the  Powwaw's  charm  ; 
Until  the  wizard's  curses  hung 
Suspended  on  his  palsying  tongue, 
And  the  fierce  warrior,  grim  and  tall, 
Trembled  before  the  forest  Paul  ! 


A  cottage  hidden  in  the  wood,  — 

Red  through  its  seams  a  light  is  glowing, 
On  rock  and  bough  and  tree -trunk  rude, 

A  narrow  lustre  throwing. 
"Who's  there?"   a  clear,    firm  voice 
demands  ; 

"Hold,    Ruth, —'tis   1,    the    Saga 
more  ! " 
Quick,  at  the  summons,  hasty  hands 

Unclose  the  bolted  door  ; 
And  on  the  outlaw's  daughter  shine 
The  Mashes  of  the  kindled  pine. 

Tall  and  erect  the  maiden  stands, 

Like  some  young  priestess  of  the  wood, 
The  freeborn  child  of  Solitude, 
And  bearing  still  the  wild  and  rude, 
Yet  noble  trace  of  Nature's  hands. 
Her  dark  brown  cheek  has  caught  its  stain 
More  from  the  sunshine  than  the  rain  ; 
Yet,  where  her  long  fair  hair  is  parting, 
A  pure  white  brow  into  light  is  starting  ; 
And,  where  the  folds  of  her  blanket  sever, 
Are  a  neck  and  bosom  as  white  as  ever 
The  foam- wreaths  rise  on  the  leaping  river. 
But  in  the  convulsive  quiver  and  grip 
Of  the  muscles  around  her  bloodless  lip, 
There  is  something  painful  and  sad  to 

see; 
And  her  eye  has  a  glance  more  sternly 

wild 
Than  even  that  of  a  forest  child 

In  its  fearless  and  untamed  freedom 

should  be. 

Yet,  seldom  in  hall  or  court  are  seen 
So  queenly  a  form  and  so  noble  a  mien, 
As  freely  and  smiling  she  welcomes 

them  there,  — 

Her  outlawed  sire  and  Mogg  Megone  : 
"  Pray,  father,  how  does  thy  hunting 

fare  ? 
And,  Sachem,  say,  —  does  Scamman 

wear, 
In  spite  of  thy  promise,  a  scalp  of  his 

own  ? " 
Hurried  and  light  is  the  maiden's  tone  ; 

But  a  fearful  meaning  lurks  within 
Her  glance,  as  it  questions  the  eye  of 

Megone,  — 

An  awful  meaning  of  guilt  and  sin  ! — • 
The  Indian  hath  opened  his  blanket,  and 

there 
Hangs  a  human  scalp  by  its  long  damp 

hair  ! 
With  hand  upraised,  with  quick-drawn 

breath, 
She  meets  that  ghastly  sign  of  death. 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


In  one  long,  glassy,  spectral  stare 
The  enlarging  eye'  is  fastened  there, 
As  if  that  mesh  of  pale  brown  hair 

Had  power  to  change  at  sight  alone, 
Even  as  the  fearful  locks  which  wound 
Medusa's  fatal  forehead  round, 

The  gazer  into  stone. 
With  such  a  look  Herodias  read 
The  features  of  the  bleeding  head, 
So  looked  the  mad  Moor  on  his  dead, 
Or  the  young  Cenci  as  she  stood, 
O'er-dabbled  with  a  father's  blood  ! 

Look  ! — feeling  melts  that  frozen  glance, 
It  moves  that  marble  countenance, 
As  if  at  once  within  her  strove 
Pity  with  shame,  and  hate  with  love. 
The  Past  recalls  its  joy  and  pain, 
Old  memories  rise  before  her  brain,  - — • 
The  lips  which  love's  embraces  met, 
The  hand  her  tears  of  parting  wet, 
The  voice  whose  pleading  tones  beguiled 
The  pleased  ear  of  the  forest-child,  — 
And  tears  she  may  no  more  repress 
Reveal  her  lingering  tenderness. 

0,  woman  wronged  can  cherish  hate 

More  deep  and  dark  than  manhood  may ; 
But  when  the  mockery  of  Fate 

Hath  left  Revenge  its  chosen  way, 
And  the  fell  curse,  which  years  have 

nursed, 

Full  on  the  spoiler's  head  hath  burst,  — 
When  all  her  wrong,  and  shame,  and  pain, 
Burns  fiercely  on  his  heart  and  brain,  — 
Still  lingers  something  of  the  spell 

Which    bound  her    to    the    traitor's 

bosom,  — 
Still,  midst  the  vengeful  fires  of  hell, 

Some  flowers  of  old  affection  blossom. 

John  Bonython's  eyebrows  together  are 

drawn 
With  a  fierce  expression  of  wrath  and 

scorn,  — 

He  hoarsely  whispers,  "  Ruth,  beware  ! 
Is  this  the  time  to  be  playing  the  fool,  — 
Crying  over  a  paltry  lock  of  hair, 

Like  a  love-sick  girl  at  school  ?  — 
Curse  on  it  !  —  an  Indian  can  see  and 

hear  : 
Away,  —  and  prepare  our  evening  cheer ! " 

How  keenly  the  Indian  is  watching  now 
Her  tearful  eye  and  her  varying  brow,  — 
With   a   serpent   eye,  which   kindles 
and  burns, 


Like  a  fiery  star  in  the  upper  air  : 
On  sire  and  daughter  his  fierce  glance 

turns  :  — 
"  Has  iny  old  white  father  a  scalp  to 

spare  ? 
For  his    young  one    loves  the  pale 

brown  hair 

Of  the  scalp  of  an  English  dog  far  more 
Than  Mogg  Megone,  or  his  wigwam  floor ; 
Go,  —  Mogg  is  wise  :  he  will  keep  his1 

land,  — 
And  Sagamore  John,  when  he  feels 

with  his  hand, 
Shall  miss  his  scalp  where  it  grew  before.' 

The  moment's  gust  of  grief  is  gone,  — 
The  lip  is   clenched,  —  the  tears  are 

still,  ~- 

God  pity  thee,  Ruth  Bonython  ! 
With  what  a  strength  of  will 
Are  nature's  feelings  in  thy  breast, 
As  with  an  iron  hand,  repressed  ! 
And  how,  upon  that  nameless  woe, 
Quick  as  the  pulse  can  come  and  go, 
While  shakes  the  un steadfast  knee,  and 

yet 

The  bosom  heaves,  —  the  eye  is  wet,  — 
Has  thy  dark  spirit  power  to  stay 
The  heart's  wild  current  on  its  way  ? 
And  whence  that  baleful  strength  of 

guile, 

Which  over  that  still  working  brow 
And  tearful  eye  and  cheek  can  throw 

The  mockery  of  a  smile  ? 
Warned  by  herfather'sblackening  frown, 
With  one  strong  effort  crushing  down 
Grief,  hate,  remorse,  she  meets  again 
The  savage  murderer's  sullen  gaze, 
And  scarcely  look  or  tone  betrays 
How  the  heart  strives  beneath  its  chain. 

"  Is  the  Sachem   angry,  —  angry   with 

Ruth, 
Because  she  cries  with  an  ache  in  her 

tooth,10 
Which  would  make  a  Sagamore  jump 

and  cry, 

And  look  about  with  a  woman's  eye  ? 
No,  —  Ruth  will   sit  in  the   Sachem's 

door 

And  braid  the  mats  for  his  wigwam  floor, 
And  broil  his  fish  and  tender  fawn, 
And  weave  his  wampum,  and  grind  his 

corn, — 
For  she  loves  the  brave  and  the  wise, 

and  none 
Are  braver  and  wiser  than  Mogg  Megone  1 " 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


5 


The  Indian's  brow  is  clear  once  more  : 

With  grave,  calm  face,  and  half-shut 

eye, 
He  sits  upon  the  wigwam  floor, 

And  watches  Ruth  go  by, 
Intent  upon  her  household  care  ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  while, 
Or  on  the  maiden,  or  her  fare, 
Which  smokes  in  grateful  promise  there, 

Bestows  his  quiet  smile. 

Ah,  Mogg  Megone  !  —  what  dreams  are 

thine, 
But   those  which  love's  own  fancies 

dress,  — 

The  sum  of  Indian  happiness  !  — 
A.  wigwam,  where  the  warm  sunshine 
Looks  in  among  the  groves  of  pine,  — 
A  stream,  where,  round  thy  light  canoe, 
The  trout  and  salmon  dart  in  view, 
A.nd  the  fair  girl,  before  thee  now, 
Spreading  thy  mat  with  hand  of  snow, 
Or  plying,  in  the  dews  of  morn, 
Her  hoe  amidst  thy  patch  of  corn, 
Or  offering  up,  at  eve,  to  thee, 
Thy  birchen  dish  of  hominy  ! 

From  the  rude  board  of  Bonython, 
Venison  and  succotash  have  gone,  — 
For  long  these  dwellers  of  the  wood 
Have  felt  the  gnawing  want  of  food. 
But  untasted  of  Ruth  is  the  frugal  cheer, — 
With  head  averted,  yet  ready  ear, 
She  stands  by  the  side  of  her  austere 

sire, 

Feeding,  at  times,  the  unequal  fire 
With  the  yellow  knots  of  the  pitch-pine 

tree, 

Whose  flaring  light,  as  they  kindle,  falls 
On  the  cottage-roof,  and  its  black  log 

walls, 
And  over  its  inmates  three. 

From  Sagamore  Bonython's  hunting  flask 
The  fire-water  burns  at  the  lip  of  Me 
gone  : 
"  Will  the  Sachem  hear  what  his  father 

shall  ask  ? 
Will  he  make  his  mark,  that  it  may 

be  known, 
On  the  speaking-leaf,  that  he  gives  the 

land, 
From  the  Sachem's  own,  to  his  father's 

hand  ? " 

The  fire- water  shines  in  the  Indian's  eyes, 
As  he  rises,  the  white  man's  bidding 
to  do  : 


"  Wuttamuttata  —  weekan  !  n  Mogg  is 

wise,  — 
For  the  water  he  drinks  is  strong  and 

new,  — 
Mogg's  heart  is  great  !  —  will  he  shut  his 

hand, 

When  his  father  asks  for  a  little  land  ? "  — 
With  unsteady  fingers,  the  Indian  has 

drawn 
On  the  parchment    the  shape    of  a 

hunter's  bow, 

"  Boon    water,  —  boon   water,  —  Saga 
more  John  ! 
Wuttamuttata,  —  weekan  !  our  hearts 

will  grow  !  " 
He    drinks    yet  deeper,  —  he    mutters 

low,  — 

He  reels  on  his  bear-skin  to  and  fro,  — 
His    head    falls    down    on    his    naked 

breast,  — 
He  struggles,  and  sinks  to  a  drunken  rest. 

"  Humph  —  drunk  as  a  beast  !  "  —  and 

Bonython's  brow 

Is  darker  than  ever  with  evil  thought — 
"  The  fool  has  signed  his  warrant ;  but 

how 

And  when  shall  the  deed  be  wrought  ? 
Speak,  Ruth  !  why,  what  the   devil  is 

there, 

To  fix  thy  gaze  in  that  empty  air  ?  — 
Speak,  Ruth  !  by  my  soul,  if  I  thought 

that  tear, 
Which  shames  thyself  and  our  purpose 

here, 

Were  shed  for  that  cursed  and  pale- 
faced  dog, 
Whose  green  scalp  hangs  from  the  belt 

of  Mogg, 
And  whose  beastly  soul  is  in  Satan's 

keeping,  — 
This  —  this!"  — he    dashes    his    hand 

upon 

The  rattling  stock  of  his  loaded  gun,  — 
"Should  send  thee  with  him  to  do 

thy  weeping  ! " 

"  Father  !  "  —  the  eye  of  Bonython 
Sinks  at  that  low,  sepulchral  tone, 
Hollow  and  deep,  as  it  were  spoken 

By  the  unmoving  tongue  of  death,  — 
Or  from  some  statue's  lips  had  broken,  — 

A  sound  without  a  breath  ! 
"  Father  !  —  my  life  I  value  less 
Than  yonder  fool  his  gaudy  dress  ; 
And  how  it  ends  it  matters  not, 
By  heart-break  or  by  rifle-shot ; 


6 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


But  spare  awhile  the  scoff  and  threat,  — 
Our  business  is  not  finished  yet." 

"  True,  true,  my  girl,  —  I  only  meant 
To  draw  up  again  the  bow  unbent. 
Harm  thee,  my  Ruth  !  I  only  sought 
To  frighten  off  thy  gloomy  thought  ; 
Come,  —  let 's  be  friends  !  "     He  seeks 

to  clasp 

His  daughter's  cold,  damp  hand  in  his. 
Ruth  startles  from  her  father's  grasp, 
As  if  each  nerve  and  muscle  felt, 
Instinctively,  the  touch  of  guilt, 
Through  all  their  subtle  sympathies. 

He  points  her  to  the  sleeping  Mogg  : 
•'  What  shall  be  done  with  yonder  dog  ? 
Scamman  is  dead,  and  revenge  is  thine,  — 
The  deed  is  signed  and  the  land  is  mine  ; 
And  this  drunken  fool  is  of  use  no  more, 
Save  as  thy  hopeful  bridegroom,  and 

sooth, 
T  were  Christian  mercy  to  finish  him, 

Ruth, 
Now,  while  he  lies  like  a  beast  on  our 

floor,  — 

If  not  for  thine,  at  least  for  his  sake, 
Rather  than  let  the  poor  dog  awake 
To  drain  my  flask,  and  claim  as  his  bride 
Such  a  forest  devil  to  run  by  his  side,  — 
Such  a  Wetuomanit 12  as  thou  wouldst 

make  ! " 

He  laughs  at  his  jest.     Hush  —  what  is 

there  ?  — 

The  sleeping  Indian  is  striving  to  rise, 
"With  his  knife  in  his  hand,  and  glar 
ing  eyes  !  — 

11  Wagh  !  —  Mogg  will  have  the  pale 
face's  hair, 
For  his  knife  is  sharp,  and  his  fingers 

can  help 

The  hair  to  pull  and  the  skin  to  peel,  — 
Let  him  cry  like  a  woman  and  twist  like 

an  eel, 
The  great  Captain  Scamman  must  lose 

his  scalp  ! 
And  Ruth,  when  she  sees  it,  shall  dance 

with  Mogg." 
His  eyes  are  fixed,  —  but  his  lips  draw 

in, — 
With  a  low,  hoarse  chuckle,  and  fiendish 

grin,  — 
And  he  sinks  again,  like  a  senseless  log. 

Ruth  does  not  speak,  — she  does  not  stir ; 
But  she  gazes  down  on  the  murderer, 


Whose  broken  and  dreamful  slumbers  tell 
Too  much  for  her  ear  of  that  deed  of  hell. 
She  sees  the  knife,  with  its  slaughter  red, 
And  the  dark  fingers  clenching  the  bear 
skin  bed  ! 
What  thoughts  of  horror  and  madness 

whirl 

Through  the  burning  brain  of  that  fallen 
girl! 

John  Bonython  lifts  his  gun  to  his  eye, 
Its  muzzle  is  close  to  the  Indian's  ear,  — 

But  he  drops  it  again.    "  Some  one  may 

be  nigh, 

And  1  would  not  that  even  the  wolves 
should  hear." 

He  draws  his  knife  from  its  deer-skin 
belt,  - 

Its  edge  with  his  fingers  is  slowly  felt ; — 

Kneeling  down  on  one  knee,  by  the  In 
dian's  side, 

From  his  throat  he  opens  the  blanket 
wide  ; 

And  twice  or  thrice  he  feebly  essays 

A  trembling  hand  with  the  knife  to  raise. 

"  I  cannot,"  —  he  mutters,  —  "  did  he 

not  save 

My  life  from  a  cold  and  wintry  grave, 
When  the  storm  came  down  from  Agioo- 

chook, 
And  the   north-wind  howled,  and  the 

tree-tops  shook,  — 

And  I  strove,  in  the  drifts  of  the  rush 
ing  snow, 
Till  my  knees  grew  weak  and  I  could 

not  go, 

And  I  felt  the  cold  to  my  vitals  creep, 
And  my  heart's  blood  stiffen,  and  pulses 

sleep  ! 

I  cannot  strike  him  —  Ruth  Bonython  ! 
In  the  Devil's  name,  tell  me  —  what 's 

to  be  done  ? " 

0,  when  the  soul,  once  pure  and  high, 
Is  stricken  down  from  Virtue's  sky, 
As,  with  the  downcast  star  of  morn, 
Some  gems  of  light  are  with  it  drawn,  — 
And,  through  its  night  of  darkness,  play 
Some  tokens  of  its  primal  day,  — 
Some  lofty  feelings  linger  still,  — 
The  strength  to  dare,  the  nerve  to  meet 
Whatever  threatens  with  defeat 
Its  all-indomitable  will  !  — 
But  lacks  the  mean  of  mind  and  heart, 
Though  eager  for  the  gains  of  crime, 
Oft,  at  his  chosen  place  and  time, 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


The  strength  to  bear  his  evil  part ; 
And,  shielded  by  his  very  Vice, 
Escapes  from  Crime  by  Cowardice. 

Ruth  starts  erect,  —  with  bloodshot  eye, 
And  lips  drawn  tight  across  her  teeth, 
Showing  their  locked  embrace  beneath, 
In  the  red  firelight : —  "Mogg  must  die ! 
Give  me  the  knife  !"  —  The  outlaw  turns, 
Shuddering  in  heart  and  limb,  away,  — 
But,  fitfully  there,  the  hearth-fire  burns, 
And  he  sees  on  the  wall  strange  shad 
ows  play. 

A  lifted  arm,  a  tremulous  bladeu 
Are  dimly  pictured  in  light  and  shade, 
Plunging  down  in  the  darkness.    Hark, 

that  cry 

Again  —  and  again  —  he  sees  it  fall,  — 
That  shadowy  arm  down  the  lighted  wall ! 
He  hears  quick  footsteps  —  a  shape 

flits  by  — 

The  door  on  its  rusted  hinges  creaks : — 
"  Ruth  —  daughter  Ruth  !"  the  outlaw 

shrieks. 

But  no  sound  comes  back,  —  he  is  stand 
ing  alone 
By  the  mangled  corse  of  Mogg  Megone  ! 


PART  II. 

;T  is  morning  over  Norridgewock,  — 
On  tree  and  wigwam,  wave  and  rock. 
Bathed  in  the  autumnal  sunshine,  stirred 
At  intervals  by  breeze  and  bird, 
And  wearing  all  the  hues  which  glow 
In  heaven's  own  pure  and  perfect  bow, 

That  glorious  picture  of  the  air, 
Which  summer's  light-robed  angel  forms 
On  the  dark  ground  of  fading  storms, 

With    pencil    dipped    in    sunbeams 

there,  — 

And,  stretching  out,  on  either  hand, 
O'er  all  that  wide  and  unshorn  land, 
Till,  weary  of  its  gorgeousness, 
The  aching  and  the  dazzled  eye 
Rests,  gladdened,  on  the  calm  blue  sky, — 

Slumbers  the  mighty  wilderness  ! 
The  oak,  upon  the  windy  hill, 

Its    dark     green     burthen     upward 

heaves  — 

The  hemlock  broods  above  its  rill, 
Its  cone-like  foliage  darker  still, 

Against  the  birch's  graceful  stem, 
And  the  rough  walnut-bough  receives 
The  sun  upon  its  crowded  leaves, 

Each  colored  like  a  topaz  gem  , 


And  the  tall  maple  wears  with  them 
The  coronal,  which  autumn  gives, 
The  brief,  bright  sign  of  ruin  near, 
The  hectic  of  a  dying  year  ! 

The  hermit  priest,  who  lingers  now 
On  the  Bald  Mountain's  shrubless  brow, 
The  gray  and  thunder-smitten  pile 
Which  marks  afar  the  Desert  Isle,13 

While  gazing  on  the  scene  below, 
May  half  forget  the  dreams  of  home, 

That  nightly  with  his  slumbers  come,  — <. 
The  tranquil  skies  of  sunny  France, 
The  peasant's  harvest  song  and  dance, 
The  vines  around  the  hillsides  wreathing 
The  soft  airs  midst  their  clusters  breath 
ing. 
The  wings  which  dipped,  the  stars  which 

shone 

Within  thy  bosom,  blue  Garonne  ! 
And  round  the  Abbey's  shadowed  wall, 
At  morning  spring  and  even-fall, 

Sweet  voices  in  the  still  air  singing,  — 
The  chant  of  many  a  holy  hymn,  — 

The  solemn  bell  of  vespers  ringing,  — • 
And  hallowed  torchlight  falling  dim 

On  pictured  saint  and  seraphim  ! 
For  here  beneath  him  lies  unrolled, 
Bathed  deep  in  morning's  flood  of  gold, 
A  vision  gorgeous  as  the  dream 
\  Of  the  beatified  may  seem, 
/     When,  as  his  Church's  legends  say. 
Borne  upward  in  ecstatic  bliss, 

The  rapt  enthusiast  soars  away 
Unto  a  brighter  world  than  this  ,: 
A  mortal's  glimpse  beyond  the  pale,  — 
A  moment's  lifting  of  the  veil  ! 

Far  eastward  o'er  the  lovely  bay, 
Penobscot's  clustered  wigwams  lay  ; 
And  gently  from  that  Indian  town 
The  verdant  hillside  slopes  adown, 
To  where  the  sparkling  waters  play 

Upon  the  yellow  sands  below  ; 
And  shooting  round  the  winding  shores 

Of  narrow  capes,  and  isles  which  lie 

Slumbering  to  ocean's  lullaby,  — 
With  birchen  boat  and  glancing  oars, 

The  red  men  to  their  fishing  go  ; 
While  from  their  planting  ground  is  borne 
The  treasure  of  the  golden  corn, 
By  laughing  girls,  whose  dark  eyes  glow 
Wild  through  the  locks  which  o'er  them 

flow. 

The  wrinkled  squaw,  whose  toil  is  done, 
Sits  on  her  bear-skin  in  the  sun, 
Watching  the  buskers,  with  a  smile 


8 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


For  each  full  ear  which  swells  the  pile  ; 
And  the  old  chief,  who  nevermore 
May  bend  the  bow  or  pull  the  oar, 
Smokes  gravely  in  his  wigwam  door, 
Or  slowly  shapes,  with  axe  of  stone, 
The  arrow-head  from  flint  and  bone. 

Beneath  the  westward  turning  eye 
A  thousand  wooded  islands  lie,  — 
Gems  of  the  waters  !  —  with  each  hue 
Of  brightness  set  in  ocean's  blue. 
Each  bears  aloft  its  tuft  of  trees 

Touched  by  the  pencil  of  the  frost, 
And,  with  the  motion  of  each  breeze, 

A  moment  seen,  —  a  moment  lost,  — 

Changing    and   blent,    confused    and 
tossed, 

The  brighter  with  the  darker  crossed, 
Their  thousand  tints  of  beauty  glow 
Down  in  the  restless  waves  below, 

And  tremble  in  the  sunny  skies, 
As  if,  from  waving  bough  to  bough, 

Flitted  the  birds  of  paradise. 
There   sleep    Placentia's    group,  —  and 

there 

Pere  Breteaux  marks  the  hour  of  prayer  ; 
And  there,  beneath  the  sea-worn  cliff, 

On  which  the  Father's  hut  is  seen, 
The  Indian  stays  his  rocking  skiff, 

And   peers   the  hemlock -boughs   be 
tween, 

Half  trembling,  as  he  seeks  to  look 
Upon  the  Jesuit's  Cross  and  Book.14 
There,  gloomily  against  the  sky 
The  Dark  Isles  rear  their  summits  high  ; 
And  Desert  Rock,  abrupt  and  bare, 
Lifts  its  gray  turrets  in  the  air,  — 
Seen  from  afar,  like  some  stronghold 
Built  by  the  ocean  kings  of  old  ; 
And,  faint   as  smoke-wreath  white  and 

thin, 

Swells  in  the  north  vast  Katahdin  : 
And,  wandering  from  its  marshy  feet, 
The  broad  Penobscot  comes  to  meet 

And  mingle  with  his  own  bright  bay. 
Slow  sweep  his  dark  and  gathering  floods, 
Arched  over  by  the  ancient  woods, 
Which  Time,  in  those  dim  solitudes, 

Wielding  the  dull  axe  of  Decay, 

Alone  hath  ever  shorn  away. 

Not  thus,  within  the  woods  which  hide 
The  beauty  of  thy  azure  tide, 

And  with  their  falling  timbers  block 
Thy  broken  currents,  Kennebec  ! 
Gazes  the  white  man  on  the  wreck 

Of  the  down-trodden  Norridgewock,  — 


In  one  lone  village  hemmed  at  length, 
In  battle  shorn  of  half  their  strength, 
I  Turned,  like  the  panther  in  his  lair, 

With  his  fast-flowing  life-blood  wet, 
For  one  last  struggle  of  despair, 

Wounded  and  faint,  but  tameless  yet  1 
Unreaped,  upon  the  planting  lands, 
The  scant,  neglected  harvest  stands  :      , 

No  shout  is  there,  —  no  dance,  —  no 

song  : 

The  aspect  of  the  very  child 
Scowls  with  a  meaning  sad  and  wild 

Of  bitterness  and  wrong. 
The  almost  infant  Norridgewock 
Essays  to  lift  the  tomahawk  ; 
And  plucks  his  father's  knife  away, 
To  mimic,  in  his  frightful  play, 

The  scalping  of  an  English  foe  : 
Wreathes  on  his  lip  a  horrid  smile, 
Burns,  like  a  snake's,  his  small  eye,  while 

Some  bough  or  sapling  meets  his  blow. 
The  fisher,  as  he  drops  his  line, 
Starts,  when  he  sees  the  hazels  quiver 
Along  the  margin  of  the  river, 
Looks  up  and  down  the  rippling  tide, 
And  grasps  the  firelock  at  his  side. 
For  Bomazeen 15  from  Tacconock 
Has  sent  his  runners  to  Norridgewock, 
With  tidings  that  Moulton  and  Harmon 
of  York 

Far  up  the  river  have  come  : 
They  have  left  their  boats,  —  they  have 

entered  the  wood, 
And  filled  the  depths  of  the  solitude 

With  the  sound  of  the  ranger's  drum. 

On  the  brow  of  a  hill,  which  slopes  to 

meet 

The  flowing  river,  and  bathe  its  feet,  — 
The  bare-washed  rock,  and  the  drooping 

grass, 
And  the   creeping  vine,  as  the  waters 

pass,  — 

A  rude  and  unshapely  chapel  stands, 
Built  up  in  that  wild  by  unskilled  hands, 
Yet  the  traveller  knows  it  a  place  of 

prayer, 

For  the  holy  sign  of  the  cross  is  there  : 
And  should  he  chance  at  that  place  to  be, 
Of  a  Sabbath  morn,  or  some  hallowed 

day, 
When  prayers  are  made  and  masses  are 

said, 

Some  for  the  living  and  some  for  the  dead, 
Well  might  that  traveller  start  to  see 

The  tall  dark  forms,  that  take  their  way 
From  the  birch  canoe,  on  the  river-shore, 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


And  the  forest  paths,  to  that  chapel  door ; 
And  marvel  to  mark  the  naked  knees 

And  the  dnsky  foreheads  bending  there, 
While,  in  coarse  white  vesture,  over  these 

In  blessing  or  in  prayer, 
Stretching  abroad  his  thin  pale  hands, 
Like  a  shrouded  ghost,  the  Jesuit 16  stands. 

Two  forms  are  now  in  that  chapel  dim, 
The  Jesuit,  silent  and  sad  and  pale, 
Anxiously  heeding  some  fearful  tale, 
Which  a  stranger  is  telling  him. 
That  stranger's  garb  is  soiled  and  torn, 
And  wet  with  dew  and  loosely  worn  ; 
Her  fair  neglected  hair  falls  down 
O'er   cheeks  with   wind    and  sunshine 

brown  ; 

Yet  still,  in  that  disordered  face, 
The  Jesuit's  cautious  eye  can  trace 
Those  elements  of  former  grace 
Which,  half  effaced,  seem  scarcely  less, 
Even  now,  than  perfect  loveliness. 

With  drooping  head,  and  voice  so  low 
That  scarce  it  meets  the  Jesuit's  ears,  — 

While  through  her  clasped  fingers  flow, 

From  the  heart's  fountain,  hot  and  slow, 
Her  penitential  tears,  — 

She  tells  the  story  of  the  woe 
And  evil  of  her  years. 

"  0  father,  bear  with  me  ;  my  heart 
Is  sick  and  death-like,  and  my  brain 
Seems  girdled  with  a  fiery  chain, 

Whose  scorching  links  will  never  part, 
And  never  cool  again. 

Bear  with  me  while  I  speak,  —  but  ttirn 
Away  that  gentle  eye,  the  while,  — 

The  fires  of  guilt  more  fiercely  burn 
Beneath  its  holy  smile  ; 

For  half  I  fancy  I  can  see 

My  mother's  sainted  look  in  thee. 

"  My  dear  lost  mother  !  sad  and  pale, 

Mournfully  sinking  day  by  day, 
And  with  a  hold  on  life  as  frail 

As  frosted  leaves,  that,  thin  and  gray, 
Hang  feebly  on  their  parent  spray, 
And  tremble  in  the  gale  ; 
Yet  watching  o'er  my  childishness 
With  patient  fondness,  —  not  the  less 
For  all  the  agony  which  kept 
Her  blue  eye  wakeful,  while  I  slept  ; 
And  checking  every  tear  and  groan 
That  haply  might  have  waked  my  own, 
And  bearing  still,  without  offence, 
My  idle  words,  and  petulance  ; 


Reproving  with  a  tear,  —  and,  while 
The  tooth  of  pain  was  keenly  preying 
Upon  her  very  heart,  repaying 

My  brief  repentance  with  a  smile. 

"0,  in  her  meek,  forgiving  eye 

There  was  a  brightness  not  of  mirth, 
A  light  whose  clear  intensity 

Was  borrowed  not  of  earth. 
Along  her  cheek  a  deepening  red 
Told  where  the  feverish  hectic  fed  ; 

And  yet,  each  fatal  token  gave 
To  the  mild  beauty  of  her  face 
A  newer  and  a  dearer  grace, 

Unwarning  of  the  grave. 
'T  was  like  the  hue  which  Autumn  gives 
To  yonder  changed  and  dying  leaves, 

Breathed  over  by  his  frosty  breath  ; 
Scarce  can  the  gazer  feel  that  this 
Is  but  the  spoiler's  treacherous  kiss, 

The  mocking-smile  of  Death  ! 

"  Sweet  were  the  tales  she  used  to  tell 

When  summer's  eve  was  dear  to  us, 
And,  fading  from  the  darkening  dell, 
The  glory  of  the  sunset  fell 

On  wooded  Agamenticus,  — 
When,  sitting  by  our  cottage  wall, 
The  murmur  of  the  Saco's  fall, 

And  the  south-wind's  expiring  sighs, 
Came,  softly  blending,  on  my  ear, 
With  the  low  tones  I  loved  to  hear  : 

Tales  of  the  pure,  —  the  good,  —  the 

wise,  — 

The  holy  men  and  maids  of  old, 
In  the  all-sacred  pages  told  ;  — 
Of  Rachel,   stooped  at   Haran's   fount- 
ains, 

Amid  her  father's  thirsty  flock, 
Beautiful  to  her  kinsman  seeming 
As  the  bright  angels  of  his  dreaming, 

On  Padan-aran's  holy  rock  ; 
Of  gentle  Ruth,  —  and  her  who  kept 

Her  awful  vigil  on  the  mountains, 
By  Israel's  virgin  daughters  wept  ; 
Of  Miriam,  with  her  maidens,  singing 

The  song  for  grateful  Israel  meet, 
While  every  crimson  wave  was  bringing 

The  spoils  of  Egypt  at  her  feet  ; 
Of  her,  —  Samaria's  humble  daughter, 

Who  paused  to  hear,  beside  her  well, 

Lessons  of  love  and  truth,  which  fell 
Softly  as  Shiloh's  flowing  water  ; 

And  saw,  beneath  his  pilgrim  guise, 
The  Promised  One,  so  long  foretold 
By  holy  seer  and  bard  of  old, 

Revealed  before  her  wondering  eyes ! 


10 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


"  Slowly  she  faded.     Day  by  day 
Her  step  grew  weaker  in  our  hall, 
And  fainter,  at  each  even-fall, 

Her  sad  voice  died  away. 
Yet  on  her  thin,  pale  lip,  the  while, 
Sat  Resignation's  holy  smile  : 
And  even  my  father  checked  his  tread, 
And  hushed  his  voice,  beside  her  bed  : 
Beneath  the  calm  and  sad  rebuke 
Of  her  meek  eye's  imploring  look, 
The  scowl  of  hate  his  brow  forsook, 

And  in  his  stern  and  gloomy  eye, 
At  times,  a  few  unwonted  tears 
"Wet  the  dark  lashes,  which  for  years 

Hatred  and  pride  had  kept  so  dry. 

"  Calm  as  a  child  to  slumber  soothed, 
As  if  an  angel's  hand  had  smoothed 

The  still,  white  features  into  rest, 
Silent  and  cold,  without  a  breath 

To  stir  the  drapery  on  her  breast, 
Pain,  with  its  keen  and  poisoned  fang, 
The  horror  of  the  mortal  pang, 
The  suffering  look  her  brow  had  worn, 
The  fear,  the  strife,  the  anguish  gone,  — 

She  slept  at  last  in  death  ! 

•'  0,  tell  me,  father,  can  the  dead 
Walk  on  the  earth,  and  look  on  us, 

A-nd  lay  upon  the  living's  head 
Their  blessing  or  their  curse  ? 

For,  0,  last  night  she  stood  by  me, 

As  I  lay  beneath  the  woodland  tree  !  " 

The  Jesuit  crosses  himself  in  awe,  — 
"  Jesu  !  what  was  it  my  daughter  saw  ? " 

"  She  came  to  me  last  night. 

The   dried    leaves   did  not   feel    her 

tread ; 
She  stood  by  me  in  the  wan  moonlight, 

In  the  white  robes  of  the  dead ! 
Pale,  and  very  mournfully 
She  bent  her  light  form  over  me. 
I  heard  no  sound,  I  felt  no  breath 
Breathe  o'er  me  from  that  face  of  death  : 
Its  blue  eyes  rested  on  my  own, 
Kayless  and  cold  as  eyes  of  stone  ; 
Yet,  in  their  fixed,  unchanging  gaze, 
Something,  which  spoke  of  early  days, — 
A  sadness  in  their  quiet  glare, 
As  if  love's  srnile  were  frozen  there,  — 
Came  o'er  me  with  an  icy  thrill  ; 
0  God  !  I  feel  its  presence  still !  " 

The  Jesuit  makes  the  holy  sign,  — 
"How  passed  the  vision,  daughter  mine?" 


"  All  dimly  in  the  wan  moonshine, 
As  a  wreath  of  mist  will  twist  and  twine, 
And  scatter,  and  melt  into  the  light,  — 
So  scattering,  — -  melting  on  my  sight, 

The  pale,  cold  vision  passed  ; 
But  those  sad  eyes  were  fixed  on  mine 

Mournfully  to  the  last." 

"  God  help  thee,  daughter,  tell  me  why 
That  spirit  passed  before  thine  eye  !  " 

"  Father,  I  know  not,  save  it  be 
That  deeds  of  mine  have  summoned  her 
From  the  unbreathing  sepulchre, 
To  leave  her  last  rebuke  with  me. 
Ah,  woe  for  me  !  my  mother  died 
Just  at  the  moment  when  I  stood 
Close  on  the  verge  of  womanhood, 
A  child  in  everything  beside  ; 
And  when  my  wild  heart  needed  most 
Her  gentle  counsels,  they  were  lost. 

"  My  father  lived  a  stormy  life, 
Of  frequent  change  and  daily  strife  ; 
And  —  God  forgive  him  !  —  left  his  child 
To  feel,  like  him,  a  freedom  wild  ; 
To  love  the  red  man's  dwelling-place. 

The  birch  boat  on  his  shaded  floods. 
The  wild  excitement  of  the  chase 

Sweeping  the  ancient  woods, 
The  camp-fire,  blazing  on  the  shore 

Of  the  still  lakes,  the  clear  stream  wh^re 

The  idle  fisher  sets  his  wear, 
Or  angles  in  the  shade,  far  more 

Than  that  restraining  awe  I  felt 
Beneath  my  gentle  mother's  care, 

When  nightly  at  her  knee  I  knelf , 
With  childhood's  simple  prayer. 

"  There  came  a  change.     The  wild,  glad 
mood 

Of  unchecked  freedom  passed. 
Amid  the  ancient  solitude 
Of  unshorn  grass  and  waving  wood, 

And  waters  glancing  bright  and  fist, 
A  softened  voice  was  in  my  ear, 
Sweet  as  those  lulling  sounds  and  fine 
The  hunter  lifts  his  head  to  hear, 
Now  far  and  faint,  now  full  and  near  — 

The  murmur  of  the  wind-swept  pine. 
A  manly  form  was  ever  nigh, 
A  bold,  free  hunter,  with  an  eye 

Whose  dark,  keen  glance  had  power 

to  wake 
Both  fear  and  love,  —  to  awe  and  charm , 

'T  was  as  the  wizard  rattlesnake, 
Whose  evil  glances  lure  to  harm- — 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


11 


Whose   cold  and  small  and  glittering 

eye, 

And  brilliant  coil,  and  changing  dye, 
Draw,  step  by  step,  the  gazer  near, 
"With  drooping  wing  and  cry  of  fear, 
Yet  powerless  all  to  turn  away, 
A  c&nscious,  but  a  willing  prey  ! 

"Fear,  doubt,  thought,  life  itself,  erelong 
Merged  in  one  feeling  deep  and  strong. 
Faded  the  world  which  I  had  known, 

A  poor  vain  shadow,  cold  and  waste  ; 
In  the  warm  present  bliss  alone 

Seemed  I  of  actual  life  to  taste. 
Fond  longings  dimly  understood, 
The  glow  of  passion's  quickening  blood, 
And  cherished  fantasies  which  press 
The  young  lip  with  a  dream's  caress,  — 
The  heart's  forecast  and  prophecy 
Took  form  and  life  before  my  eye, 
Seen  in  the  glance  which  met  my  own, 
Heard  in  the  soft  and  pleading  tone, 
Felt  in  the  arms  around  me  cast, 
And  warm  heart-pulses  beating  fast. 
Ah  !  scarcely  yet  to  God  above 
With  deeper  trust,  with  stronger  love, 
Has    prayerful    saint  his    meek    heart 

lent, 

Or  cloistered  nun  at  twilight  bent, 
Than  I,  before  a  human  shrine, 
As  mortal  and  as  frail  as  mine, 
With  heart,  and  soul,  and  mind,  and  form, 
Knelt  madly  to  a  fellow-worm. 

*'  Full  soon,  upon  that  dream  of  sin, 
An  awful  light  came  bursting  in. 
The  shrine  was  cold  at  which  I  knelt, 

The  idol  of  that  shrine  was  gone  ; 
A  humbled  thing  of  shame  and  guilt, 

Outcast,  and  spurned  and  lone, 
Wrapt  in  the  shadows  of  my  crime, 

With    withering  heart  and   burning 
brain, 

And  tears  that  fell  like  fiery  rain, 
I  passed  a  fearful  time. 

"There  came  a  voice  —  it  checked  the 
tear  — 

In  heart  and  soul  it  wrought  a  change ; — 
My  father's  voice  was  in  my  ear  -, 

It  whispered  of  revenge  ! 
A  new  and  fiercer  feeling  swept 

All  lingering  tenderness  away  ; 
And  tiger  passions,  which  had  slept 

In  childhood's  better  day, 
Unknown,  unfelt,  arose  at  length 
In  all  their  own  demoniac  strength. 


"  A  youthful  warrior  of  the  wild, 
By  words  deceived,  by  smiles  beguiled, 
Of  crime  the  cheated  instrument, 
Upon  our  fatal  errands  went. 

Through  camp  and  town  and  wilderness 
He  tracked  his  victim  ;  and,  at  last, 
Just  when  the  tide  of  hate  had  passed, 
And  milder  thoughts  came  warm  and  fast, 
Exulting,  at  my  feet  he  cast 

The  bloody  token  of  success. 

"0  God  !  with  what  an  awful  power 

I  saw  the  buried  past  uprise, 
And  gather,  in  a  single  hour, 

Its  ghost-like  memories  ! 
And  then  I  felt  —  alas  !  too  late  — 
That  underneath  the  mask  of  hate, 
That  shame  and  guilt  and  wrong  had 

thrown 
O'er  feelings  which  they  might  not  own, 

The  heart's  wild  love  had  known  no 

change ; 

And  still  that  deep  and  hidden  love, 
With  its  first  fondness,  wept  above 

The  victim  of  its  own  revenge  ! 
There  lay  the  fearful  scalp,  and  there 
The  blood  was  on  its  pale  brown  hair  ! 
I  thought  not  of  the  victim's  scorn, 

I  thought  not  of  his  baleful  guile, 
My  deadly  wrong,  my  outcast  name, 
The  characters  of  sin  and  shame 
On  heart  and  forehead  drawn  ; 

I  only  saw  that  victim's  smile,  — 
The  still,  green  places  where  we  met,  — 
The  moonlit  branches,  dewy  wet ; 
I  only  felt,  I  only  heard 
The  greeting  and  the  parting  word,  — 
The  smile,  —  the  embrace,  —  the  tone, 

which  made 
An  Eden  of  the  forest  shade. 

"  And  oh,  with  what  a  loathing  eye, 

With  what  a  deadly  hate,  and  deep, 
I  saw  that  Indian  murderer  lie 

Before  me,  in  his  drunken  sleep  ! 
What  though  for  me  the  deed  was  done,, 
And  words  of  mine  had  sped  him  on  I 
Yet  when  he  murmured,  as  he  slept, 

The  horrors  of  that  deed  of  blood, 
The  tide  of  utter  madness  swept 

O'er  brain  and  bosom,  like  a  flood. 
And,  father,  with  this  hand  of  mine  — 

"  Ha  !  what  didst  thou  ?  "  the  Jesuit 

cries, 
Shuddering,  as  smitten  with  sudden  pain, 

And  shading,  with  one  thin  hand,  Ms 
eyes, 


12 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


With  the  other  he  makes  the  holy  sign. 
"  —  I  smote  him  as  I  would  a  worm  ;  — 
"With  heart  as  steeled,  with  nerves  as 

firm  : 
He  never  woke  again  !  " 

"  "Woman  of  sin  and  blood  and  shame, 
Speak,  —  1  would  know  that  victim's 
name." 

* 'Father,"    she  gasped,    "a  chieftain, 

known 
As  Saco's  Sachem, — MOGG  MEGONE  !  " 

Pale  priest !     What   proud    and    lofty 

dreams, 
What    keen    desires,    what    cherished 

schemes, 

What  hopes,  that  time  may  not  recall, 
Are  darkened  by  that  chieftain's  fall  ! 
Was  he  not  pledged,  by  cross  and  vow, 

To  lift  the  hatchet  of  his  sire, 
And,  round  his  own,  the  Church's  foe, 

To  light  the  avenging  fire  ? 
Who  now  the  Tarrantine  shall  wake, 
For  thine  and  for  the  Church's  sake  ? 

Who  summon  to  the  scene 
Of  conquest  and  unsparing  strife, 
And  vengeance  dearer  than  his  life, 

The  fiery-souled  Castine  ? 17 
Three  backward  steps  the  Jesuit  takes,  — 
His  long,  thin  frame  as  ague  shakes  ; 

And  loathing  hate  is  in  his  eye, 
As  from  his  lips  these  words  of  fear 
Fall  hoarsely  on  the  maiden's  ear,  — 

"The  soul  that  sinneth  shall  surely 
die  !  " 

She  stands,  as  stands  the  stricken  deer, 
Checked  midAvay  in  the  fearful  chase, 
When  bursts,  upon  his  eye  and  ear, 
The  gaunt,  gray  robber,  baying  near, 
Between  him  and  his  hiding-place  ; 
While  still  behind,  with  yell  and  blow, 
Sweeps,  like  a  storm,  the  coming  foe. 
"  Save  me,  0  holy  man  !  "  • —  her  cry 
Fills  all  the  void,  as  if  a  tongue, 
Unseen,  from  rib  and  rafter  hung, 
Thrilling  with  mortal  agony ; 
Her    hands    are    clasping    the    Jesuit's 

knee, 
And  her  eye  looks  fearfully  into  his 

own  ;  — 
"  Off,  woman  of  sin  !  —  nay,  touch  not 

me 

With   those   fingers  of  blood  ;  —  be 
gone  ! " 


With  a  gesture  of  horror,  he  spurns  the 

form 
That  writhes  at  his  feet  like  a  trodden 

worm. 

Ever  thus  the  spirit  must, 

Guilty  in  the  sight  of  Heaven, 
With  a  keener  woe  be  riven, 

For  its  weak  and  sinful  trust 

In  the  strength  of  human  dust  ; 
And  its  anguish  thrill  afresh, 

For  each  vain  reliance  given 
To  the  failing  arm  of  flesh. 


PART   III. 

AH,  weary  Priest  !  —  with  pale  hands 
pressed 

On  thy  throbbing  brow  of  pain, 
Baffled  in  thy  life-long  quest, 

Overworn  with  toiling  vain, 
How  ill  thy  troubled  musings  fit 

The  holy  quiet  of  a  breast 

With  the  Dove  of  Peace  at  rest, 
Sweetly  brooding  over  it. 
Thoughts  are  thine  which  have  no  part 
With  the  meek  and  pure  of  heart, 
Undisturbed  by  outward  things, 
Resting  in  the  heavenly  shade, 
By  the  overspreading  wings 

Of  the  Blessed  Spirit  made. 
Thoughts  of  strife  and  hate  and  wrong 
Sweep  thy  heated  brain  along, 
Fading  hopes  for  whose  success 

It  were  sin  to  breathe  a  prayer  ;  — 
Schemes    which     Heaven     may    never 
bless,  - 

Fears  which  darken  to  despair. 
Hoary  priest  !  thy  dream  is  done 
Of  a  hundred  red  tribes  won 

To  the  pale  of  Holy  Church  ; 
And  the  heretic  o'erthrown, 
And  his  name  no  longer  known, 
And  thy  weary  brethren  turning, 
Joyful  from  their  years  of  mourning, 
'Twixt  the  altar  and  the  porch. 
Hark  !  what  sudden  sound  is  heard 

In  the  wood  and  in  the  sky, 
Shriller  than  the  scream  of  bird,  — 

Than     the     trumpet's     clang     more 

high  ! 
Every  wolf-cave  of  the  hills,  — 

Forest  arch  and  mountain  gorge, 

Rock  and  dell,  and  river  verge,  — 
With  an  answering  echo  thrills. 
Well  does  the  Jesuit  know  that  cry, 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


13 


Which  summons  the  Norridgewock  to 

die, 

And  tells  that  the  foe  of  his  flock  is  nigh. 
He  listens,  and  hears  the  rangers  come, 
With  loud  hurrah,  and  jar  of  drum, 
And  hurrying  feet  (for  the  chase  is  hot), 
And  the  short,  sharp  sound  of  rifle  shot, 
And  taunt  and  menace,  —  answered  well 
By  the  Indians'  mocking  cry  and  yell,  — 
The  bark  of  dogs,  — the  squaw's  mad 

scream,  — 

The  dash  of  paddles  along  the  stream,  — 
The  whistle  of  shot  as  it  cuts  the  leaves 
Of   the    maples    around    the    church's 

eaves,  — 
And    the    gride    of    hatchets    fiercely 

thrown, 

On  wigwam-log  and  tree  and  stone. 
Black  with  the  grime  of  paint  and  dust, 
Spotted  and    streaked  with    human 

gore, 
A  grim  and  naked  head  is  thrust 

Within  the  chapel-door. 
"Ha  i — Bomazeen  !  — In  God's  name  say,  i 
"What  mean  these  sounds  of  bloody  fray  ?" 
Silent,  the  Indian  points  his  hand 
To  where  across  the  echoing  glen 
Sweep  Harmon's  dreaded  ranger-band, 

And  Moulton  with  his  men. 
"Where  are  thy  warriors,  Bomazeen  ? 
Where  are  De  Rouville 18  and  Castine, 
And  where  the  braves  of  Sawga's  queen  ?" 
' '  Let  my  father  find  the  winter  snow 
Which  the  sun  drank  up  long  moons  ago ! 
Under  the  falls  of  Tacconock, 
The  wolves  are  eating  the  Norridgewock ; 
Castine  with  his  wives  lies  closely  hid 
Like  a  fox  in  the  woods  of  Pemaquid  ! 
On  Sawga's  banks  the  man  of  war 
Sits  in  his  wigwam  like  a  squaw,  — 
Squando  has  fled,  and  Mogg  Megone, 
Struck  by  the  knife  of  Sagamore  John, 
Lies  stiff  and  stark  and  cold  as  a  stone." 

Fearfully  over  the  Jesuit's  face, 

Of  a  thousand  thoughts,  trace  after  trace, 

Like   swift   cloud -shadows,    each  other 

chase. 

One  instant,  his  fingers  grasp  his  knife, 
For  a  last  vain   struggle  for  cherished 

life,  - 

The  next,  he  hurls  the  blade  away, 
And  kneels  at  his  altar's  foot  to  pray  ; 
Over  his  beads  his  fingers  stray, 
And  he  kisses  the  cross,  and  calls  aloud 
On  the  Virgin  and  her  Son  ; 
For  terrible  thoughts  his  memory  crowd 


Of  evil  seen  and  done,  — 
Of  scalps  brought  home  by  his  savage 

flock 
From  Casco  and  Sawga  and  Sagadahock 

In  the  Church's  service  won. 

No  shrift  the  gloomy  savage  brooks, 
As  scowling  on  the  priest  he  looks  : 
' '  Co wesass — cowesass  —  ta which  wessa 

seen  ?19 

Let  my  father  look  upon  Bomazeen,  — 
My  father's  heart  is  the  heart  of  a  squaw, 
But  mine  is  so  hard  that  it  does  not  thaw  | 
Let  my  father  ask  his  God  to  make 
A  dance  and  a  feast  for  a  great  saga* 

more, 

When  he  paddles  across  the  western  lake, 
With  his  dogs  and  his  squaws  to  the 

spirit's  shore. 
"Cowesass  — cowesass —  tawhich  wessa- 

seen  ? 
Let  my  father  die  like  Bomazeen  !  " 

Through  the  chapel's  narrow  doors, 

And  through  each  window  in  the  walls, 
Round  the  priest  and  warrior  pours 

The  deadly  shower  of  English  balls. 
Low  on  his  cross  the  Jesuit  falls  ; 
V/"bile  at  his  side  the  Norridgewock, 
With  failing  breath,  essays  to  mock 
And  menace  yet  the  hated  foe,  — 
Shakes  his  scalp-trophies  to  and  fro 

Exultingly  before  their  eyes,  — 
Till,  cleft  and  torn  by  shot  and  blow, 

Defiant  still,  he  dies. 

"  So  fare  all  eaters  of  the  frog  ! 
Death  to  the  Babylonish  dog  ! 

Down  with  the  beast  of  Rome  !  " 
With  shouts  like  these,  around  the  dead, 
Unconscious  on  his  bloody  bed, 

The  rangers  crowding  come. 
Brave  men  !  the  dead  priest  cannot  hear 
The  unfeeling  taunt,  — the  brutal  jeer  ;— 
Spurn  —  for  he  sees  ye  not  —  in  wrath, 
The  symbol  of  your  Saviour's  death  ; 

Tear  from  his  death-grasp,  in  yourzeaL 
And  trample,  as  a  thing  accursed, 
The  cross  he  cherished  in  the  dust  : 

The  dead  man  cannot  feel  ! 

Brutal  alike  in  deed  and  word, 

With  callous  heart  and  hand  of  strife, 

How  like  a  fiend  may  man  be  made, 

Plying  the  foul  and  monstrous  trade 
Whose  harvest-field  is  human  life, 

Whose  sickle  is  the  reeking  sword  ! 


14 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


Quenching,  with  reckless  hand  in  blood, 
Sparks  kindled  by  the  breath  of  God  ; 
Urging  the  deathless  soul,  unshriven, 

Of  open  guilt  or  secret  sin, 
Before  the  bar  of  that  pure  Heaven 

The  holy  only  enter  in  ! 
0,  by  the  widow's  sore  distress, 
The  orphan's  wailing  wretchedness, 
By  Virtue  struggling  in  the  accursed 
Embraces  of  polluting  Lust, 
By  the  fell  discord  of  the  Pit, 
And  the  pained  souls  that  people  it, 
And  by  the  blessed  peace  which  fills 

The  Paradise  of  God  forever, 
Resting  on  all  its  holy  hills, 

And  flowing  with  its  crystal  river,  — 
Let  Christian  hands  no  longer  bear 

In  triumph  on  his  crimson  car 

The  foul  and  idol  god  of  war  ; 
No  more  the  purple  wreaths  prepare 
To  bind  amid  his  snaky  hair  ; 
Nor  Christian  bards  his  glories  tell, 
Nor  Christian  tongues  his  praises  swell. 

Through  the  gun-smoke  wreathing  white, 

Glimpses  on  the  soldiers'  sight 

A  thing  of  human  shape  I  ween, 

For  a  moment  only  seen, 

With  its  loose  hair  backward  streaming, 

And  its  eyeballs  madly  gleaming, 

Shrieking,  like  a  soul  in  pain, 

From  the  world  of  light  and  breath, 
Hurrying  to  its  place  again, 

Spectre-like  it  vanisheth  ! 

"Wretched  girl  !  one  eye  alone 
Notes  the  way  which  thou  hast  gone. 
That  great  Eye,  which  slumbers  never, 
Watching  o'er  a  lost  world  ever, 
Tracks  thee  over  vale  and  mountain^ 
By  the  gushing  forest-fountain, 
Plucking  from  the  vine  its  fruit, 
Searching  for  the  ground-nut's  root, 
Peering  in  the  she-wolf's  den, 
Wading  through  the  marshy  fen, 
Where  the  sluggish  water-snake 
Basks  beside  the  sunny  brake, 
Coiling  in  his  slimy  bed, 
Smooth  and  cold  against  thy  tread,  — 
Purposeless,  thy  mazy  way 
Threading  through  the  lingering  day. 
And  at  night  securely  sleeping 
Where  the  dogwood's  dews  are  weeping  ! 
Still,  though  earth  and  man  discard  thefc, 
Doth  thy  Heavenly  Father  guard  thee  i 
He  who  spared  the  guilty  Cain, 
Even  when  a  brother's  blood, 


Crying  in  the  ear  of  God, 
Gave  the  earth  its  primal  stain,  — 
He  whose  mercy  ever  liveth, 
Who  repenting  guilt  forgiveth, 
And  the  broken  heart  receiveth,  — 
Wanderer  of  the  wilderness, 

Haunted,  guilty,  crazed,  and  wild, 
He  regardeth  thy  distress, 

And  careth  for  his  sinful  child  ! 


'T  is  springtime  on  the  eastern  hills  ! 
Like  torrents  gush  the  summer  rills  ; 
Through  winter's  moss  and  dry  dead 

leaves 

The  bladed  grass  revives  and  lives, 
Pushes  the  mouldering  waste  away, 
And  glimpses  to  the  April  day. 
In  kindly  shower  and  sunshine  bud 
The  branches  of  the  dull  gray  wood  ; 
Out  from  its  sunned  and  sheltered  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks  ; 

The  southwest  wind  is  warmly  blowing, 
And  odors  from  the  springing  grass, 
The  pine-tree  and  the  sassafras, 

Are  with  it  on  its  errands  going. 

A  band  is  marching  through  the  wood 
Where  rolls  the  Kennebec  his  flood,  — 
The  warriors  of  the  wilderness, 
Painted,  and  in  their  battle  dress  ; 
And  with  them  one  whose  bearded  cheek, 
And  white  and  wrinkled  brow,  bespeak 

A  wanderer  from  the  shores  of  France. 
A  few  long  locks  of  scattering  snow 
Beneath  a  battered  morion  flow, 
And  from  the  rivets  of  the  vest 
Which  girds  in  steel  his  ample  breast, 

The  slanted  sunbeams  glance. 
In  the  harsh  outlines  of  his  face 
Passion  and  sin  have  left  their  trace  ; 
Yet,  save  worn  brow  and  thin  gray  hair, 
No  signs  of  weary  age  are  there. 

His  step  is  firm,  his  eye  is  keen, 
Nor  years  in  broil  and  battle  spent, 
Nor  toil,  nor  wounds,  nor  pain  have  beni 

The  lordly  frame  of  old  Castine. 

No  purpose  now  of  strife  and  blood 

Urges  the  hoary  veteran  on  : 
The  fire  of  conquest  and  the  mood 

Of  chivalry  have  gone. 
A  mournful  task  is  his,  —  to  lay 

Within  the  earth  the  bones  of  thosk 
Who  perished  in  that  fearful  day, 
When  Norridgewock  became  the  prey 

Of  all  unsparing  foes. 
Sadly  and  still,  dark  thoughts  between, 


THE  BKIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 


15 


Of  coming  vengeance  mused  Castine, 
Of  the  fallen  chieftain  Bomazeen, 
Who  bade  for  him  the  Norridgewocks 
Dig  up  their  buried  tomahawks 

For  firm  defence  or  swift  attack  ; 
And  him  whose  friendship  formed  the  tie 

Which  held  the  stern  self-exile  back 
From  lapsing  into  savagery  ; 
Whose  garb  and  tone  and  kindly  glance 
Recalled  a  younger,  happier  day, 
And  prompted  memory's  fond  essay, 
To  bridge  the  mighty  waste  which  lay 
Between  his  wild  home  and  that  gray, 
Tall  chateau  of  his  native  France, 
Whose  chapel  bell,  with  far-heard  din, 
Ushered  his  birth-hour  gayly  in, 
&nd  counted  with  its  solemn  toll 
The  masses  for  his  father's  soul. 

Hark  !  from  the  foremost  of  the  band 

Suddenly  bursts  the  Indian  yell ; 
For  now  on  the  very  spot  they  stand 

Where  the  Norridgewocks  fighting  fell. 
No  wigwam  smoke  is  curling  there  ; 
The  very  earth  is  scorched  and  bare  : 
And  they  pause  and  listen  to  catch  a  sound 

Of  breathing  life,  —  but  there  comes 

not  one, 

Save  the  fox'sbark  and  the  rabbit's  bound; 
But  here  and  there,  on  the  blackened 
ground, 

White  bones  are  glistening  in  the  sun. 
And  where  the  house  of  prayer  arose, 
And  the  holy  hymn,  at  daylight's  close, 


And  the  aged  priest  stood  up  tc  bless 

The  children  of  the  wilderness, 

There  is  naught  save  ashes  sodden  and 

dank  ; 
And  the  birchen  boats  of  the  Nor- 

ridgewock, 

Tethered  to  tree  and  stump  and  nv>> 
Rotting  along  the  river  bank  ! 

Blessed  Mary  !  who  is  she 
Leaning  against  that  maple-tree  ? 
The  sun  upon  her  face  burns  hot, 
But  the  fixed  eyelid  moveth  not ; 
The  squirrel's  chirp  is  shrill  and  clear 
From  the  dry  bough  above  her  ear  ; 
Dashing  from  rock  and  root  its  spray, 

Close  at  her  feet  the  river  rushes  ; 

The    blackbird's     wing    against   her 
brushes, 

And  sweetly  through  the  hazel-bushes 

The  robin's  mellow  music  gushes  ;  — 
God  save  her  !  will  she  sleep  alway  ? 

Castine  hath  bent  him  over  the  sleeper  : 
"  Wake,   daughter,  —  wake  !  "  —  but 

she  stirs  no  limb  : 
The  eye  that  looks  on  him  is  fixed  and 

dim; 
And  the  sleep  she  is  sleeping  shall  be  no 

deeper, 

Until  the  angel's  oath  is  said, 
And  the  final  blast  of  the  trump  goes  forth. 
To  the  graves  of  the  sea  and  the  graves 

of  earth. 
RUTH  BONYTHON  J.S  DEAD  ! 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK.* 


WE  had  been  wandering  for  many  days 
Through  the  rough  northern   country. 

We  had  seen 

!f  he  sunset,  with  its  bars  of  purple  cloud, 
Like  a  new  heaven,  shine  upward  from 

the  lake 

Of  Winnepiseogee  ;  and  had  felt 
The  sunrise  breezes,  midst  the  leafy  isles 
Which  stoop  their  summer  beauty  to  the 

lips 
Of  the  bright  waters.     We  had  checked 

our  steeds, 


Silent  with  wonder,  where  the  mountain 

wall 
Is  piled  to  heaven  ;    and,  through  the 

narrow  rift 
Of  the  vast  rocks,  against  whose  rugged 

feet 

Beats  the  mad  torrent  with  perpetual  roar, 
Where  noonday  is  as  twilight,  and  the 

wind 
Comes  burdened  with  the   everl 

moan 
Of  forests  and  of  far-off  waterfalls, 


16 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   PENNACOOK. 


We  had  looked  upward  where  the  sum 
mer  sky, 

Tasselled  with  clouds  light-woven  by 
the  sun, 

Sprung  its  blue  arch  above  the  abutting 
crags 

O'er-roofing  the  vast  portal  of  the  land 

Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains.    We  had 


The  high  source  of  the  Saco  ;  and  be 
wildered 
In  the  dwarf  spruce-belts  of  the  Crystal 

Hills, 
Had  heard  above  us,  like  a  voice  in  the 

cloud, 

The  horn  of  Fabyan  sounding  ;  and  atop 
Of  old  Agioochook  had  seen  the  mountains 
Piled  to  the  northward,  shagged  with 

wood,  and  thick 
As  meadow  mole-hills,  —  the  far  sea  of 

Casco, 

A  white  gleam  on  the  horizon  of  the  east ; 
Fair  lakes,  embosomed  in  the  woods 

and  hills  ; 
Moosehillock's    mountain    range,     and 

Kearsarge 
lifting  his  Titan  forehead  to  the  sun  ! 

And  we  had  rested  underneath  the  oaks 
Shadowing  the  bank,  whose  grassy  spires 

are  shaken 

By  the  perpetual  beating  of  the  falls 
Of  the   wild    Ammonoosuc.     We    had 

tracked 

The  winding  Pemigewasset,  overhung 
By  beechen   shadows,  whitening  down 

its  rocks, 

Or  lazily  gliding  through  its  intervals, 
From  waving  rye-fields  sending  up  the 

gleam 

Of  sunlit  waters.  We  had  seen  the  moon 
Rising  behind  Umbagog's  eastern  pines, 
Like  a  great  Indian  camp-fire  ;  and  its 

beams 
At  midnight  spanning  with  a  bridge  of 

silver 
The  Merrimack  by  Uncanoonuc's  falls. 

There  were  five  souls  of  us  whom  trav 
el's  chance 
Had    thrown    together    in  these    wild 

north  hills  :  — 

A  city  lawyer,  for  a  month  escaping 
From  his  dull  office,  where  the  weary  eye 
Saw    only   hot   brick    walls    and   close 

thronged  streets,  — 
Briefless  as  yet,  but  with  an  eye  to  see 


Life's  sunniest  side,  and  with  a  heart  to 

take 
Its  chances   all   as   godsends  ;  and   his 

brother, 

Pale  from  long  pulpit  studies,  yet  re 
taining 
The  warmth  and  freshness  of  a  genial 

heart, 

Whose  mirror  of  the  beautiful  and  true. 
In  Man  and  Nature,  was    as    yet   UL 

dimmed 

By  dust  of  theologic  strife,  or  breath 
Of  sect,  or  cobwebs  of  scholastic  lore  ; 
Like  a  clear  crystal  calm  of  water,  taking 
The  hue  and  image  of  o'erleaning  flowers, 
Sweet  human  faces,  white  clouds  of  the 

noon, 
Slant    starlight  glimpses    through  the 

dewy  leaves, 
And  tenderest    moonrise.      'T  was,    in 

truth,  a  study, 

To  mark  his  spirit,  alternating  between 
A  decent  and  professional  gravity 
And  an  irreverent  mirthfulness,  which 

often 

Laughed  in  the  face  of  his  divinity, 
Plucked  off  the  sacred  ephod,  quite  un- 

shrined 

The  oracle,  and  for  the  pattern  priest 
Left  us  the  man.     A  shrewd,  sagacious 

merchant, 
To    whom    the   soiled  sheet  found  in 

Crawford's  inn, 

Giving  the  latest  news  of  city  stocks 
And  sales  of  cotton,  had  a  deeper  meaning 
Than   the  great  presence  of  the   awful 

mountains 
Glorified    by    the    sunset  ;  —  and     his 

daughter 
A  delicate  flower  on  whom  had  blown 

too  long 
Those  evil  winds,  which,  sweeping  from 

the  ice 

And  winnowing  the  fogs  of  Labrador, 
Shed  their  cold  blight  round  Massachu 
setts  Bay, 
With    the    same    breath    which    stirs 

Spring's  opening  leaves 
And  lifts  her  half-formed  flower-bell  on 

its  stem, 
Poisoning  our  seaside  atmosphere. 

It  chanced 

That  as  we  turned  upon  our  homeward  way, 
A  drear  northeastern  storm  came  howl. 

ing  up 
The  valley  of  the  Saco  ;  and  that  girl 


THE  BKIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


17 


Who  had  stood  with  us   upon   Mount 

"Washington, 
Her   brown  locks  ruffled  by  the  wind 

which  whirled 

In  gusts  around  its  sharp  cold  pinnacle, 
Who  had  joined  our  gay  trout-fishing  in 

the  streams 
Which  lave  that  giant's  feet ;    whose 

laugh  was  heard 

jike  a  bird's  carol  on  the  sunrise  breeze 
Which  swelled  our  sail  amidst  the  lake's 

green  islands, 
Shrank  from  its  harsh,  chill  breath,  and 

visibly  drooped 
Like  a  flower  in  the  frost.     So,  in  that 

quiet  inn 

Which  looks  from  Conway  on  the  moun 
tains  piled 

Heavily  against  the  horizon  of  the  north, 
Like  summer  thunder-clouds,  we  made 

our  home  : 
And  while  the  mist  hung  over  dripping 

hills, 
And  the  cold  wind-driven  rain-drops  all 

day  long 

Beat  their  sad  music  upon  roof  and  pane, 
We  strove  to  cheer  our  gentle  invalid. 

The  lawyer  in  the  pauses  of  the  storm 
Went  angling  down  the  Saco,  and,  re 
turning, 

Recounted  his  adventures  and  mishaps  ; 
Gave  us  the  history  of  his  scaly  clients, 
Mingling  with  ludicrous  yet  apt  citations 
Of  barbarous  law  Latin,  passages 
From  Izaak  Walton's  Angler,  sweet  and 

fresh 

A.S  the  flower-skirted  streams  of  Stafford 
shire, 
Where,  under  aged  trees,  the  southwest 

wind 
Of  soft  June  mornings  fanned  the  thin, 

white  hair 

Of  the  sage  fisher.    And,  if  truth  be  told, 
Our  youthful  candidate  forsook  his  ser 
mons, 

His  commentaries,  articles  and  creeds, 
For  the  fair  page  of  human  loveliness,  — 
The  missal  of  young  hearts,  whose  sa 
cred  text 

Is  music,  its  illumining  sweet  smiles. 
He  sang  the  songs  she  loved  ;  and  in 

his  low, 

Deep,  earnest  voice,  recited  many  a  page 
Of  poetry,  —  the  holiest,  tenderest  lines 
Of  the  sad  bard  of  Olney,  —  the  sweet 
songs, 

2 


Simple  and  beautiful  as  Truth  and  Na 
ture, 
Of  him  whose  whitened  locks  on  Rydal 

Mount 

Are  lifted  yet  by  morning  breezes  blowing 
From  the  green  hills,  immortal  in  his  lays. 
And  for  myself,  obedient  to  her  wish, 
I  searched  our  landlord's  proffered  li 
brary,  — 
A  well-thumbed  Bunyan,  with  its  nice 

wood  pictures 
Of  scaly  fiends  and  angels  not  unlike 

them,  — 

Watts'   unmelodious    psalms,  —  Astrol 
ogy'8 

Last  home,  a  musty  pile  of  almanacs, 
And  an  old  chronicle  of  border  wars 
And  Indian  history.     And,  as  I  read 
A  story  of  the  marriage  of  the  Chief 
Of  Saugus  to  the  dusky  Weetamoo, 
Daughter  of  Passaconaway,  who  dwelt 
In  the  old  time  upon  the  Merrimack, 
Our  fair  one,  in  the  playful  exercise 
Of  her  prerogative,  —  the  right  divine 
Of  youth  and  beauty,  —  bade  us  versify 
The    legend,    and    with    ready    pencil 

sketched 

Its  plan  and  outlines,    laughingly  as 
signing 

To  each  his  part,  and  barring  our  excuses 
With  absolute  will.    So,  like  the  cavaliers 
Whose  voices  still  are  heard  in  the  Ro 
mance 

Of  silver-tongued  Boccaccio,  on  the  banks 
Of  Arno,  with  soft  tales  of  love  beguiling 
The  ear  of  languid  beauty,  plague-exiled 
From  stately  Florence,  we  rehearsed  our 

rhymes 

To  their  fair  auditor,  and  shared  by  turns 
Her  kind  approval  and  her  playful  cen- 


It  may  be  that  these  fragments  owe  alone 
To  the   fair   setting  of    their    circum 
stances,  — 
The    associations   of  time,    scene,    and 

audience,  — 
Their    place  amid  the   pictures   which 

fill  up 

The  chambers  of  my  memory.  Yet  I  trust 
That  some,  who  sigh,  while  wandering 

in  thought, 

Pilgrims  of  Romance  o'er  the  olden  world. 
That    our  broad    land,  —  our    sea-like 

lakes  and  mountains 
Piled  to  the  clouds,  —  our  rivers  over 
hung 


18 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


By  forests  which  have  known  no  other 

change 

For  ages,  than  the  budding  and  the  fall 
Of  leaves,  —  our   valleys   lovelier   than 

those 
Which  the  old  poets  sang  of,  —  should 

but  figure 

On  the  apocryphal  chart  of  speculation 
As  pastures,  wood-lots,  mill-sites,  with 

the  privileges, 
Rights,  and  appurtenances,  which  make 

up 

A  Yankee  Paradise,  — unsung,  unknown, 
To  beautiful  tradition  ;  even  their  names, 
"Whose  melody  yet  lingers  like  the  last 
Vibration  of  the  red  man's  requiem, 
Exchanged  for  syllables  significant 
Of  cotton-mill  and  rail-car,    will  look 

kindly 

Upon  this  effort  to  call  up  the  ghost 
Of  our  dim  Past,  and  listen  with  pleased 

ear 
To  the  responses  of  the  questioned  Shade. 

I.    THE   MERRIMACK. 

O  CHILD  of  that  white-crested  mountain 

whose  springs 
Gush  forth  in  the  shade  of  the  cliff-eagle's 

wings, 
Down  whose  slopes  to  the  lowlands  thy 

wild  waters  shine, 
Leaping  gray    walls   of  rock,    flashing 

through  the  dwarf  pine. 

From  that  cloud-curtained  cradle  so  cold 

and  so  lone, 
From  the   arms   of  that  wintry-locked 

mother  of  stone, 
By    hills  hung   with    forests,    through 

vales  wide  and  free, 
Thy  mountain-born  brightness  glanced 

down  to  the  sea  ! 

No  bridge  arched  thy  waters  save  that 

where  the  trees 
Stretched   their   long  arms   above   thee 

and  kissed  in  the  breeze  : 
No  sound  save  the  lapse  of  the  waves  on 

thy  shores, 
The  plunging  of  otters,  the  light  dip  of 


Green-tufted,     oak-shaded,    by    Amos- 

keag's  fall 
Thy  twin  Uncanoonucs  rose  stately  and 

tall, 


Thy  Nashua  meadows  lay  green  and  un« 

shorn, 
And  the  hills  of  Pentucket  were  tasselled 

with  corn. 

But  thy   Pennacook  valley   was  fairer 

than  these, 

And  greener  its  grasses  and  taller  its  trees, 
Ere  the  sound  of  an  axe  in  the  forest 

had  rung, 
Or  the  mower  his  scythe  in  the  meadow.' 

had  swung. 

In  their  sheltered  repose  looking  out 
from  the  wood 

The  bark-builded  wigwams  of  Pennacook 
stood, 

There  glided  the  corn-dance,  the  coun 
cil-fire  shone, 

And  against  the  red  wrar-post  the  hatchet 
v,ras  thrown. 

There  the  old  smoked  in  silence  their 

pipes,  and  the  young 
To  the  pike  and  the  white-perch  their 

baited  lines  flung ; 
There  the  boy  shaped  his  arrows,  and 

there  the  shy  maid 
"Wove  her  many-hued  baskets  and  bright 

wampum  braid. 

0  Stream  of  the  Mountains  !  if  answer 

of  thine 
Could  rise  from  thy  waters  to  question 

of  mine, 
Methinks     through    the    din     of    thy 

thronged  banks  a  moan 
Of  sorrow  would  swell  for  the  days  which 

have  gone. 

Not  for  thee  the  dull  jar  of  the  loom  and 

the  wheel, 
The  gliding  of  shuttles,  the  ringing  of 

steel  ; 
But  that  old  voice  of  waters,  of  bird  and 

of  breeze, 
The  dip  of  the  wild-fowl,  the  rustling  of 

trees  ! 

II.    THE   BASHABA.21 

LIFT  we  the  twilight  curtains  of  the  Past, 
And,  turning  from  familiar  sight  and 

sound, 

Sadly  and  full  of  reverence  let  us  cast 
A  glance  upon  Tradition's   shadowy 
ground, 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   PENNACOOK. 


19 


Led  by  the  few  pale  lights  which,  glim 
mering  round 

That  dim,  strange  land  of  Eld,  seem 
dying  fast  ; 

And  that  which  history  gives  not  to  the 
eye, 

The  faded  coloring  of  Time's  tapestry, 

Let  Fancy,  with  her  dream-dipped  brush, 
supply. 

Roof  of  bark  and  walls  of  pine, 
Through    whose  chinks  the  sunbeams 

shine, 
Tracing  many  a  golden  line 

On  the  ample  floor  within  ; 
Where,  upon  that  earth-floor  stark, 
Lay  the  gaudy  mats  of  bark, 
With  the  bear's  hide,  rough  and  dark, 

And  the  red-deer's  skin. 

Window-tracery,  small  and  slight, 
Woven  of  the  willow  white, 
Lent  a  dimly  checkered  light, 

And  the  night- stars  glimmered  down, 
Where  the  lodge-fire's  heavy  smoke, 
Slowly  through  an  opening  broke, 
In  the  low  roof,  ribbed  with  oak, 

Sheathed  with  hemlock  brown. 

Gloomed  behind  the  changeless  shade, 
By  the  solemn  pine -wood  made  ; 
Through  the  rugged  palisade, 

In  the  open  foreground  planted, 
Glimpses  came  of  rowers  rowing, 
Stir  of  leaves   and  wild-flowers  blow 
ing, 
Steel-like  gleams  of  water  flowing, 

In  the  sunlight  slanted. 

Here  the  mighty  Bashaba 

Held  his  long-unquestioned  sway, 

From  the  White  Hills,  far  away, 

To  the  great  sea's  sounding  shore  ; 
Chief  of  chiefs,  his  regal  word 
All  the  river  Sachems  heard, 
At  his  call  the  war- dance  stirred, 

Or  was  still  once  more. 

There  his  spoils  of  chase  and  war, 
Jaw  of  wolf  and  black  bear's  paw, 
Panther's  skin  and  eagle's  claw, 

Lay  beside  his  axe  and  bow  ; 
And,  adown  the  roof-pole  hung, 
Loosely  on  a  snake-skin  strung, 
In  the  smoke  his  scalp-locks  swung 

Grimly  to  and  fro. 


Nightly  down  the  river  going, 
Swifter  was  the  hunter's  rowing, 
When  he  saw  that  lodge-fire  glowing 

O'er  the  waters  still  and  red  ; 
And  the  squaw's  dark  eye  burned  brighter. 
And  she  drew  her  blanket  tighter, 
As,  with  quicker  step  and  lighter, 

From  that  door  she  fled. 

For  that  chief  had  magic  skill, 
And  a  Panisee's  dark  will, 
Over  powers  of  good  and  ill, 

Powers  which  bless  and  powers  which 

ban,  — 

Wizard  lord  of  Pennacook, 
Chiefs  upon  their  war-path  shook, 
When  they  met  the  steady  look 

Of  that  wise  dark  man. 

Tales  of  him  the  gray  squaw  told, 
When  the  winter  night-wind  cold 
Pierced  her  blanket's  thickest  fold, 

And  her  fire  burned  low  and  small. 
Till  the  very  child  abed, 
Drew  its  bear-skin  over  head, 
Shrinking  from  the  pale  lights  shed 

On  the  trembling  wall. 

All  the  subtle  spirits  hiding 
Under  earth  or  wave,  abiding 
In  the  cavern ed  rock,  or  riding 

Misty  clouds  or  morning  breeze  ; 
Every  dark  intelligence, 
Secret  soul,  and  influence 
Of  all  things  which  outward  sense 

Feels,  or  hears,  or  sees,  — 

These  the  wizard's  skill  confessed, 
At  his  bidding  banned  or  blessed, 
Stormful  woke  or  lulled  to  rest 

Wind  and  cloud,  and  fire  and  flood  ^ 
Burned  for  him  the  drifted  snow, 
Bade  through  ice  fresh  lilies  blow. 
And  the  leaves  of  summer  grow 

Over  winter's  wood  ! 

Not  untrue  that  tale  of  old  ! 
Now,  as  then,  the  wise  and  bold 
All  the  powers  of  Nature  hold 

Subject  to  their  kingly  will  ; 
From  the  wondering  crowds  ashore, 
Treading  life's  wild  waters  o'er, 
As  upon  a  marble  floor, 

Moves  the  strong  man  still. 

Still,  to  such,  life's  elements 
i  With  their  sterner  laws  dispense, 


20 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   PENKACOOK. 


And  the  chain  of  consequence 

Broken  in  their  pathway  lies  ; 
Time  and  change  their  vassals  making, 
Flowers  from  icy  pillows  waking, 
Tresses  of  the  sunrise  shaking 
Over  midnight  skies. 

Still,  to  th'  earnest  soul,  the  sun 
Bests  or*  towered  Gibeon, 
And  the  moon  of  Ajalon 

Lights  the  battle-grounds  of  life  ; 
To  his  aid  the  strong  reverses 
Hidden  powers  and  giant  forces, 
And  the  high  stars,  in  their  courses, 

Mingle  in  his  strife  ! 


III.    THE   DAUGHTER. 

THE  soot-black  brows  of  men,  —  the 

yell 

Of  women  thronging  round  the  bed,  — 

The  tinkling  charm  of  ring  and  shell,  — 

The    Powah    whispering    o'er    the 

dead  !  — 
All  these  the    Sachem's    home   had 

known, 

When,  on  her  journey  long  and  wild 
To  the  dim  World  of  Souls,  alone, 
In  her  young  beauty  passed  the  mother 
of  his  child. 

Three   bow-shots   from   the  Sachem's 

dwelling 

They  laid  her  in  the  walnut  shade, 
Where  a  green  hillock  gently  swelling 

Her  fitting  mound  of  burial  made. 
There  trailed  the  vine  in  summer  hours, 
The   tree-perched  squirrel  dropped 

his  shell,  — 

On  velvet  moss  and  pale-hued  flowers, 
Woven  with  leaf  and  spray,  the  softened 
sunshine  fell  ! 

The  Indian's  heart  is  hard  and  cold,  — 

It  closes  darkly  o'er  its  care, 
Ana  formed  in  Nature's  sternest  mould, 
Is  slow  to  feel,  and  strong  to  bear. 
The  war-paint  on  the  Sachem's  face, 
Tin  wet  with  tears,  shone  fierce  and 

red, 

And,  still  in  battle  or  in  chase, 
pry  leaf  and  snow-rime  crisped  beneath 
His  foremost  tread. 

Yet  when  her  name  was  heard  no  more, 
And  when  the  robe  her  mother  gave, 


And  small,  light  moccasin  she  wore, 

Had  slowly  wasted  on  her  grave, 
Unmarked  of  him  the  dark  maids  sped 
Their  sunset  dance  and  moonlit  play; 
No  other  shared  his  lonely  bed, 
No    other   fair   young   head    upon    his 
bosom  lay. 

A  lone,  stern  man.    Yet,  as  sometimes 

The  tempest-smitten  tree  receives 
From  one  small  root  the  sap  which 

climbs 
Its    topmost    spray   and   crowning 

leaves, 
So  from  his  child  the  Sachem  drew 

A  life  of  Love  and  Hope,  and  felt 
His  cold  and  rugged  nature  through 
The   softness   and   the   warmth   of  her 
young  being  melt. 

A  laugh  which  in  the  woodland  rang 

Bemocking  April's  gladdest  bird,  — 

A  light  and  graceful  form  which  sprang 

To   meet   him  when  his   step   was 

heard,  — 
Eyes  by  his  lodge-fire  flashing  dark, 

Small  fingers  stringing  bead  and  shell 
Or  weaving  mats  of  bright-hued  bark, — 
With   these   the    household-god 22   had 
graced  his  wigwam  well. 

Child  of  the  forest  !  —  strong  and  free, 
Sh'ght-robed,    with  loosely  flowing 

hair, 
She  swam  the  lake  or  climbed  the  tree, 

Or  struck  the  flying  bird  in  air. 
O'er  the  heaped  drifts  of  winter's  moon 
Her  snow-shoes  tracked  the  hunter's 

way  ; 

And  dazzling  in  the  summer  noon 
The  blade  of  her  light  oar  threw  off'  its 
shower  of  spray  ! 

Unknown  to  her  the  rigid  rule, 

The  dull  restraint,  the  chiding  frown, 
The  weary  torture  of  the  school, 

The  taming  of  wild  nature  down. 
Her  only  lore,  the  legends  told 

Around  the  hunter's  fire  at  night ; 
Stars  rose  and  set,  and  seasons  rolled, 
Flowers  bloomed  and  snow-flakes   fell, 
unquestioned  in  her  sight. 

Unknown  to  her  the  subtle  skill 
With  which  the  artist-eye  can  trace 

[n  rock  and  tree  and  lake  and  hill 
The  outlines  of  divinest  grace ; 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   PENNACOOK. 


21 


Unknown  the  fine  soul's  keen  unrest, 
Which    sees,    admires,    yet  yearns 

alway  ; 

Too  closely  on  her  mother's  breast 
To  note  her  smiles  of  love  the  child  of 
Nature  lay  ! 

It  is  enough  for  such  to  be 

Of  common,  natural  things  a  part, 
To  feel,  with  bird  and  stream  and  tree, 
The  pulses  of  the  same  great  heart ; 
But  we,  from  Nature  long  exiled 
In    our    cold    homes    of   Art    and 

Thought, 

Grieve  like  the  stranger-tended  child, 
Which  seeks  its  mother's  arms,  and  sees 
but  feels  them  not. 

The  garden  rose  may  richly  bloom 

In  cultured  soil  and  genial  air 
To  cloud  the  light  of  Fashion's  room 
Or  droop  in  Beauty's  midnight  hair, 
In  lonelier  grace,  to  sun  and  dew 

The  sweetbrier  on  the  hillside  shows 
Its  single  leaf  and  fainter  hue, 
Untrained  and  wildly  free,   yet  still  a 
sister  rose  ! 

Thus  o'er  the  heart  of  Weetamoo 

Their  mingling  shades  of  joy  and  ill 
The  instincts  of  her  nature  threw,  — 

The  savage  was  a  woman  still. 
Midstoutlines  dim  of  maiden  schemes, 

Heart-colored  prophecies  of  life, 
Eose  on  the  ground  of  her  young  dreams 
The  light  of  a  new  home,  —  ^he  lover 
and  the  wife. 


IV.    THE   WEDDING. 

COOL  and  dark  fell  the  autumn  night, 
But  the  Bashaba's  wigwam  glowed  with 

light, 
For  down  from  its  roof  by  green  withes 

hung 
Flaring    and    smoking  the  pine-knots 

swung. 

And  along  the  river  great  wood-fires 
Shot  into  the  night  their  long  red  spires, 
Showing  behind  the  tall,  dark  wood, 
Flashing  before  on  the  sweeping  flood. 

In  the   changeful   wind,  with  shimmer 

and  shade, 
Now  high,  now  low,  that  firelight  played, 


On  tree-leaves  wet  with  evening  dews, 
On  gliding  water  and  still  canoes. 

The  trapper  that  night  on  Turee's  brook, 
And  the  weary  fisher  on  Contoocook, 
Saw  over  the  marshes  and  through  the 

pine, 
And  down  on  the  river  the  dance-lights 

shine. 

For  the  Saugus  Sachem  had  come  to  woo 
The  Bashaba's  daughter  Weetamoo, 
And  laid  at  her  father's  feet  that  night 
His  softest  furs  and  wampum  white. 

From  the  Crystal  Hills  to  the  far  south 
east 

The  river  Sagamores  came  to  the  feast  ; 

And  chiefs  whose  homes  the  sea-winds 
shook, 

Sat  down  on  the  mats  of  Pennacook. 

They  came  from  Sunapee's  shore  of  rock, 
From  the  snowy  sources  of  Snooganock, 
And  from  rough  Coos  whose  thick  woods 

shake 
Their  pine-cones  in  Umbagog  Lake. 

From  Aminonoosuc's  mountain  pass, 
Wild  as  his  home,  came  Chepewass  ; 
And  the  Keenomps  of  the  hills  which 

throw 
Their  shade  on  the  Smile  of  Manito. 

With  pipes  of  peace  and  bows  unstrung, 
Glowing  with  paint  came  old  and  young, 
In  wampum  and  furs  and  feathers  arrayed, 
To  the  dance  and  feast  the  Bashaba  made. 

Bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the  field, 
All  which  the  woods  and  waters  yield, 
On  dishes  of  birch  and  hemlock  piled, 
Garnished  and  graced  that  banquet  wild. 

Steaks  of  the  brown  bear  fat  and  large 
From  the  rocky  slopes  of  the  Kearsarge  ; 
Delicate  trout  from  Babboosuck  brook, 
And  salmon  speared  in  the  Contoocook  ; 

Squirrels  which  fed  where  nuts  fell  thick 
In  the  gravelly  bed  of  the  Otternic  ; 
And  small  wild-hens  in  reed-snares  caught 
From  the  banks  of  Sondagardee  brought ; 

Pike  and  perch  from  the  Suncook  taken, 
Nuts  from  the  trees  of  the  Black  Hills 
shaken, 


22 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   PENNACOOK. 


Cranberries  picked  in  the  Squamscot  bog, 
And  grapes  from  the  vines  of  Piscataquog : 

And,  drawn  from  that  great  stone  vase 

which  stands 

In  the  river  scooped  by  a  spirit's  hands,23 
Garnished  with  spoons  of  shell  and  horn, 
Stood  the  birchen  dishes  of  smoking  corn. 

Thus  bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the  field, 
All  which  the  woods  and  the  waters  yield, 
Furnished  in  that  olden  day 
The  bridal  feast  of  the  Bashaba. 

And  merrily  when  that  feast  was  done 
On  the  fire-lit  green  the  dance  begun, 
With  squaws'  shrill  stave,  and  deeper  hum 
Of  old  men  beating  the  Indian  drum. 

Painted  and  plumed,   with  scalp-locks 

flowing, 
And  red  arms  tossing  and  black  eyes 

glowing, 

Now  in  the  light  and  now  in  the  shade 
Around  the  fires  the  dancers  played. 

The  step  was  quicker,  the  song  more  shrill, 
And  the  beat  of  the  small  drum  s  louder  still 
"Whenever  within  the  circle  drew 
The  Saugus  Sachem  and  Weetamoo. 

The  moons  of  forty  winters  had  shed 
Their  snow  upon  that  chieftain's  head, 
And  toil  and  care,  and  battle's  chance 
Had  seamed  his  hard  dark  countenance. 

A  fawn  beside  the  bison  grim,  — 
Why  turns  the  bride's  fond  eye  on  him, 
In  whose  cold  look  is  naught  beside 
The  triumph  of  a  sullen  pride  ? 

A'sk  why  the  graceful  grape  entwines 
The  rough  oak  with  her  arm  of  vines  ; 
And  why  the  gray  rock's  rugged  cheek 
The  soft  lips  of  the  mosses  seek  : 

vVhy,  with  wise  instinct,  Nature  seems 
To  harmonize  her  wide  extremes, 
Linking  the  stronger  with  the  weak, 
The  haughty  with  the  soft  and  meek  ! 

V.    THE   NEW   HOME. 

A  WILD  and  broken  landscape,  spiked 

with  firs, 

Roughening  the  bleak  horizon's  north 
ern  edge, 


Steep,  cavernous  hillsides,  where  black 

hemlock  spurs 

And  sharp,  gray  splinters  of  the  wind 
swept  ledge 

Pierced  the  thin-glazed  ice,  or  bristling 
rose, 

Where  the  cold  rim  of  the  sky  sunk  down 
upon  the  snows. 

And     eastward     cold,     wide     marshes 

stretched  away, 
Dull,  dreary  flats  without  a  bush  or 

tree, 
O'er-crossed  by  icy  creeks,  where  twice  a 

day 
Gurgled  the  waters  of  the  moon-struck 

sea; 
And  faint  with  distance  came  the  stifled 

roar, 
The  melancholy  lapse  of  waves  on  that 

low  shore. 

No  cheerful  village   with   its   mingling 

smokes, 

No  laugh  of  children  wrestling  in  the 
snow, 

No  camp-fire  blazing  through  the  hill 
side  oaks, 
No  fishers  kneeling  on  the  ice  below ; 

Yet  midst  all  desolate  things  of  sound 
and  view, 

Through  the  long  winter  moons  smiled 
dark-eyed  Weetamoo. 

Her  heart  had  found  a  home ;  and  freshly 

all 
Its  beautiful  affections  overgrew 

Their  rugged  prop.    As  o'er  some  granite 

wall 

Soft  vine-leaves  open  to  the  moisten 
ing  dew 

And  warm  bright  sun,  the  love  of  that 
young  wife 

Found  on  a  hard   cold  breast  the  dew 
and  warmth  of  life. 

The  steep  bleak  hills,   the   melancholy 

shore, 

The  long  dead  level  of  the  marsh  be 
tween, 

A  coloring  of  unreal  beauty  wore 

Through  the  soft  golden  mist  of  young 
love  seen. 

For  o'er  those  hills  and  from  that  dreary 
plain, 

Nightly  she  welcomed  home  her  kanter 
chief  again. 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   PENNACOOK. 


23 


No  warmth  of  heart,  no  passionate  burst 

of  feeling, 

Repaid  her  welcoming  smile  and  part 
ing  kiss, 

No  fond  and  playful  dalliance  half  con 
cealing, 

Under  the  guise  of  mirth,  its  tender 
ness  ; 

But,  in  their  stead,  the  warrior's  settled 
pride, 

And  vanity's  pleased  smile  with  homage 
satisfied. 

Enough  for  Weetamoo,  that  she  alone 
Sat  on  his  mat  and  slumbered  at  his 
side  ; 

That  he  whose  fame  to  her  young  ear 

had  flown 

Now  looked  upon  her  proudly  as  his 
bride  ; 

That  he  whose  name  the  Mohawk  trem 
bling  heard 

Vouchsafed  to  her  at  times  a  kindly  look 
or  word. 

For  she  had  learned  the  maxims  of  her 

race, 

Which  teach  the  woman  to  become  a 
slave 

And  feel  herself  the  pardonless  disgrace 
Of  love's  fond  weakness  in  the  wise 
and  brave,  — 

The  scandal  and  the  shame  which  they 
incur, 

Who  give  to  woman  all  which  man  re 
quires  of  her. 

So  passed  the  winter  moons.     The  sun 

at  last 

Broke  link  by  link  the  frost  chain  of 
the  rills, 

And  the  warm  breathings  of  the  south 
west  passed 
Over  the  hoar  rime  of  the  Saugus  hills, 

The  gray  and  desolate  marsh  grew  green 
once  more, 

And  the  birch-tree's  tremulous  shade  fell 
round  the  Sachem's  door. 

Then  from  far  Pennacook  swift  runners 

came, 
With  gift  and  greeting  for  the  Saugus 

chief ; 
Beseeching  him  in  the  great  Sachem's 

name, 

That,  with  the  coming  of  the  flower 
and  leaf, 


The  song  of  birds,  the  warm  breeze  and 

the  rain, 
Young  Weetamoo  might  greet  her  lonely 

sire  again. 

And  Winnepurkit  called  his  chiefs  to 
gether, 

And  a  grave  council  in  his  wigwam 
met, 

Solemn  and  brief  in  words,  considering 

whether 
The  rigid  rules  of  forest  etiquette 

Permitted  Weetamoo  once  more  to  look 

Upon  her  father's  face  and  green-banked 
Pennacook . 

With    interludes     of   pipe-smoke    and 

strong  water, 

The  forest   sages   pondered,    and    at 
length, 

Concluded  in  a  body  to  escort  her 
Up  to  her  father's  home  of  pride  and 
strength, 

Impressing  thus  on  Pennacook  a  sense 

Of  Winnepurkit's  power  and  regal  con 
sequence. 

So  through  old  woods  which  Aukeeta- 

mit's  24  hand, 
A  soft  and  many-shaded  greenness  lent, 

Over  high  breezy  hills,  and  meadow  land 
Yellow  with  flowers,  the  wild  proces 
sion  went, 

Till,  rolling  down  its  wooded  banks  be 
tween, 

A  broad,    clear,  mountain  stream,    the 
Merrimack  was  seen. 

The  hunter  leaning  on  his  bow  undrawn, 
The   fisher  lounging  on  the  pebbled 

shores, 
Squaws  in  the   clearing  dropping  the 

seed-corn, 
Young  children  peering  through  the 

wigwam  doors, 
Saw  with   delight,   surrounded  by  her 

train 
Of  pain  ted  Saugus  braves,  their  Weetamoo 

again. 


VI.    AT   PENNACOOK. 


THE  hills  are  dearest  which  our  childish 

feet 
Have    climbed  the    earliest ;    and  the 

streams  most  sweet 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 


Are  ever  those  at  which  our  young  lips 

drank, 
Stooped  to  their  waters  o'er  the  grassy 

bank  : 

Midst  the  cold  dreary  sea-watch,  Home's 

hearth-light 
Shines   round  the   helmsman  plunging 

through  the  night  ; 
And  still,  with  inward  eye,  the  traveller 

sees 
In  close,  dark,  stranger  streets  his  native 

trees. 

The  home-sick  dreamer's  "!  ; .  v  ;.s  nightly 
fanned 

By  breezes  whispering  of  his  native  land, 

And  on  the  stranger's  dim  and  dying 
eye 

The  soft,  sweet  pictures  of  his  child 
hood  lie. 

Joy  then  for  Weetamoo,  to  sit  once  more 

A  child  upon  her  father's  wigwam  floor ! 

Once  more  with  her  old  fondness  to  be 
guile 

From  his  cold  eye  the  strange  light  of  a 
smile. 

The  long  bright  days  of  summer  swiftly 
passed, 

The  dry  leaves  whirled  in  autumn's  ris 
ing  blast, 

And  evening  cloud  and  whitening  sun 
rise  rime 

Told  of  the  coming  of  the  winter-time. 

But  vainly  looked,   the  while,    young 

"Weetamoo, 

Down  the  dark  river  for  her  chief's  canoe  ; 
No  dusky  messenger  from  Saugus  brought 
The  grateful  tidings  which  the  young 

wife  sought. 

At  length  a  runner  from  her  father  sent, 
To  Winnepurkit's  sea-cooled  wigwam 

went  : 
"  Eagle  of  Saugus,  — in  the  woods  the 

dove 
Mourns  for  the  shelter  of  thy  wings  of 

love." 

But  the  dark  chief  of  Saugus  turned  aside 
In  the  grim  anger  of  hard-hearted  pride  ; 
"  I  bore  her  as  became  a  chieftain's 

daughter, 
Up  to  her  home  beside  the  gliding  water. 


"  If  now  no  more  a  mat  for  her  is  found 
Of  all  which  line  her  father's  wigwam 

round, 

Let  Pennacook  call  out  his  warrior  train, 
And  send  her  back  with  wampum  gifts 

again." 

The  baffled  runner  turned  upon  his  track, 
Bearing  the  words  of  Winnepurkit  back. 
"Dog  of  the  Marsh,"  cried  Pennacook. 

' '  no  more 
Shall  child  of  mine  sit  on  his  wigwam 

floor. 

"  Go,  —  let  him  seek  some  meaner  squaw 

to  spread 

The  stolen  bear-skin  of  his  beggar's  bed  : 
Son  of  a  fish-hawk  !  —  let  him  dig  his 

clams 
For  some  vile  daughter  of  the  Aga warns, 

"Or  coward  Mpmucks !  — may  his  scalp 
dry  black 

In  Mohawk  smoke,  before  I  send  her 
back." 

He  shook  his  clenched  hand  towards  the 
ocean  wave, 

While  hoarse  assent  his  listening  coun 
cil  gave. 

Alas  poor  bride  !  —  can  thy  grim   sire 

impart 

His  iron  hardness  to  thy  woman's  heart  ? 
Or  cold  self-torturing  pride  like  his  atone 
For  love  denied  and  life's  warm  beauty 

flown? 

On  Autumn's  gray  and  mournful  grave 

the  snow 
Hung  its   white   wreaths  ;  with   stifled 

voice  and  low 
The  river  crept,  by  one  vast  bridge  o'er- 

crossed, 
Built  by  the  hoar-locked  artisan  of  Frost. 

And  many  a  Moon  in  beauty  newly  born 
Pierced  the  red  sunset  with  her  silver 

horn, 

Or,  from  the  east,  across  her  azure  iield 
Kolled  the  wide  brightness  of  her  full- 
orbed  shield. 

Yet  Winnepurkit  came  not,  — on  the  mat 
Of  the  scorned  wife  her  dusky  rival  sat ; 
And  he,  the  while,  in  Western  woods  afar, 
Urged  the  long  chase,  or  trod  the  path 
of  war. 


THE   BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK, 


25 


Dry  up  thy  tears,  young  daughter  of  a 

chief  ! 

Waste  not  on  him  the  sacredness  of  grief ; 
Be  the  fierce  spirit  of  thy  sire  thine  own, 
His  lips  of  scorning,  and  his  heart  of  stone. 

What  heeds  the  warrior  of  a  hundred 
fights, 

The  storm-worn  watcher  through  long 
hunting  nights, 

Cold,  crafty,  proud  of  woman's  weak 
distress, 

Her  home-bound  grief  and  pining  lone 
liness  ? 


VII.    THE   DEPARTURE. 

THE  wild  March  rains  had  fallen  fast  and 
long 

The  snowy  mountains  of  the  North  among, 

Making  each  vale  a  watercourse,  —  each 
hill 

Bright  with  the  cascade  of  some  new- 
made  rill. 

Gnawed  by  the  sunbeams,  softened  by 
the  rain, 

Heaved  underneath  by  the  swollen  cur 
rent's  strain, 

The  ice-bridge  yielded,  and  the  Merri- 
mack 

Bore  the  huge  ruin  crashing  down  its 
track. 

On  that  strong  turbid  water,  a  small  boat 
Guided  by  one  weak  hand  was  seen  to 

float; 
Evil  the  fate  which  loosed  it  from  the 

shore, 
Too  early  voyager  with  too  frail  an  oar  ! 

Down  the  vexed  centre  of  that  rushing 

tide, 
The  thick  huge   ice-blocks  threatening 

either  side, 
The  foam-white  rocks  of  Amoskeag  in 

view, 
With  arrowy  swiftness  sped  that  light 

canoe. 

The  trapper,  moistening  his  moose's  meat 
On  the  wet  bank  by  Uncanoonuc's  feet, 
Saw  the  swift  boat  flash  down  the  trou 
bled  stream  — 

Slept  he,  or  waked  he  ?  —  was  it  truth 
or  dream  ? 


The  straining  eye  bent  fearfully  before, 
The  small  hand  clenching  on  the  useless 

oar, 
The  bead-wrought  blanket  trailing  o'er 

the  waVer  — 
He  knew  them  all — woe  for  the  Sachem's 

daughter  ! 

Sick  and  aweary  of  her  lonely  life, 
Heedless  of  peril  the  still  faithful  wife 
Had  left  her  mother's  grave,  her  father's 

door, 
To  seek  the  wigwam  of  her  chief  once 

more. 

Down  the  white  rapids  like  a  sear  leaf 

whirled, 
On  the  sharp  rocks  and  piled-up  icea 

hurled, 

Empty  and  broken,  circled  the  canoe 
In  the  vexed  pool   below  —  but,  where 

was  Weetamoo  ? 


VIII.    SONG  OF   INDIAN  WOMEN. 

THE  Dark  eye  has  left  us, 

The  Spring-bird  has  flown  ; 
On  the  pathway  of  spirits 

She  wanders  alone. 
The  song  of  the  wood-dove  has  died  on 

our  shore,  — 

Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  t  ^  — We  hear 
it  no  more  ! 

0  dark  water  Spirit  ! 

We  cast  on  thy  wave 
These  furs  which  may  never 

Hang  over  her  grave  ; 
Bear  down  to  the  lost  one  the  robes  that 

she  wore,  — 

Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  !  —  We  see  her 
no  more  ! 

Of  the  strange  land  she  walks  in 

No  Powah  has  told  : 
It  may  burn  with  the  sunshine, 

Or  freeze  with  the  cold. 
Let  us  give  to  o:u  lost  one  the  robes  that 

she  wore, 

Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  I  —  We  s«e  hp; 
no  more  ! 

The  path  she  is  treading 

Shall  soon  be  our  own  ; 
Each  gliding  in  shadow 

Unseen  and  alone  !  — 


26 


LEGENDARY. 


In  vain  shall  we  call  on  the  souls  gone 

before,  — 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  !  ~ —  They  hear 

us  no  more  ! 

0  mighty  Sowanna  !  26 
Thy  gateways  unfold, 
From  thy  wigwam  of  sunset 

Lift  curtains  of  gold  ! 
Take  home  the  poor  Spirit  whose  journey 

is  o'er,  — 

Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  !  —  We  see  her 
no  more  ! 


So  sang  the  Children  of  the-  Leaves  beside 

The  broad,  dark  river's  coldly  flowing  tide, 

Now  low,  now  harsh,  with  sob-like 
pause  and  swell, 

On  the  high  wind  their  voicesrose  and  fell. 

Nature's  wild  music,  —  sounds  of  wind 
swept  trees, 

The  scream  of  birds,  the  wailing  of  the 
breeze, 

The  roar  of  waters,  steady,  deep,  and 
strong,  — 

Mingled  and  murmured  in  that  farewell 
song. 


LEGENDARY. 


THE  MERRIMACK. 

["  The  Indians  speak  of  a  beautiful  river,  far 
to  the  south,  which  they  call  Merrimack."  — 
SIECR  DE  MONTS  :  1604.] 

STREAM  of  my  fathers  !  sweetly  still 
The  sunset  rays  thy  valley  fill ; 
Poured  slantwise  dowrn  the  long  defile, 
Wave,   wood,  and  spire  beneath   them 

smile. 

I  see  the  windirg  Powow  fold 
The  green  hill  in  its  belt  of  gold, 
And  following  down  its  wavy  line, 
Its  sparkling  waters  blend  with  thine. 
There  's  not  a  tree  upon  thy  side, 
Nor  rock,  which  thy  returning  tide 
A.S  yet  hath  left  abrupt  and  stark 
Above  thy  evening  water-mark  ; 
N^o  calm  cove  with  its  rocky  hem, 
NTo  isle  whose  emerald  swells  begem 
Thy  broad,  smooth  current  ;  not  a  sail 
Bowed  to  the  freshening  ocean  gale  ; 
No  small  boat  with  its  busy  oars, 
N"or  gray  wall  sloping  to  thy  shores  ; 
N^or  farm-house  with  its  maple  shade, 
Or  rigid  poplar  colonnade. 
But  lies  distinct  and  full  in  sight, 
Beneath  this  gush  of  sunset  light. 
Centuries  ago,  that  harbor-bar, 
Stretching  its  length  of  foam  afar, 
And  Salisbury's  beach  of  shining  sand, 
And    yonder    island's    wave-smoothed 

strand, 
Saw  the  adventurer's  tiny  sail. 


Flit,  stooping  from  the  eastern  gale  ;  ^ 
And  o'er  these  woods  and  waters  broke 
The  cheer  from  Britain's  hearts  of  oak, 
As  brightly  on  the  voyager's  eye, 
Weary  of  forest,  sea,  and  sky, 
Breaking  the  dull  continuous  wood, 
The  Merrimack  rolled  down  his  flood  ; 
Mingling  that  clear  pellucid  brook, 
Which  channels  vast  Agioochook 
When  spring-time's  sun  and  shower  un 
lock 

The  frozen  fountains  of  the  rock, 
And  more  abundant  waters  given 
From  that  pure  lake,  "The  Smile  of 

Heaven,"28 

Tributes  from  vale  and  mountain -side,  — 
With  ocean's  dark,  eternal  tide  ! 

On  yonder  rocky  cape,  which  braves 
The  stormy  challenge  of  the  waves, 
Midst  tangled  vine  and  dwarfish  wood, 
The  hardy  Anglo-Saxon  stood, 
Planting  upon  the  topmost  crag 
The  staff  of  England's  battle-flag  ; 
And,  while  from  out  its  heavy  fold 
Saint  George's  crimson  cross  unrolled, 
Midst  roll  of  drum  and  trumpet  blare, 
And  weapons  brandishing  in  air, 
He  gave  to  that  lone  promontory 
The  sweetest  name  in  all  his  story  ;  ^ 
Of  her,  the  flower  of  Islam's  daughters, 
Whose    harems    look    on     Stamboul's 

waters,  — 
Who,  when  the  chance  of  war  had  bound 


THE   NORSEMEN. 


27 


The  Moslem  chain  his  limbs  around, 
Wreathed  o'er  with  silk  that  iron  chain, 
Soothed  with  her  smiles  his  hours   of 

pain, 

And  fondly  to  her  youthful  slave 
A  dearer  gift  than  freedom  gave. 

But  look  !  —  the  yellow  light  no  more 
Streams    down    on   wave    and  verdant 

shore  ; 

And  clearly  on  the  calm  air  swells 
The  twilight  voice  of  distant  bells. 
From  Ocean's  bosom,  white  and  thin, 
The  mists  come  slowly  rolling  in  ; 
Hills,  woods,  the  river's  rocky  rim, 
Amidst  the  sea-like  vapor  swim, 
While  yonder  lonely  coast-light,  set 
Within  its  wave-washed  minaret, 
Half  quenched,  a  beamless  star  and  pale, 
Shines  dimly  through  its  cloudy  veil ! 

Home  of  my  fathers  !  —  I  have  stood 
Where  Hudson  rolled  his  lordly  flood  : 
Seen  sunrise  rest  and  sunset  fade 
Along  his  frowning  Palisade  ; 
Looked  down  the  Apalaehian  peak 
On  Juniata's  silver  streak; 
Have  seen  along  his  valley  gleam 
The  Mohawk's  softly  winding  stream  ; 
The  level  light  of  sunset  shine 
Through  broad  Potomac's  hem  of  pine  ; 
And  autumn's  rainbow-tinted  banner 
Hang  lightly  o'er  the  Susquehanna  ; 
Yet  wheresoe'er  his  step  might  be, 
Thy  wandering  child  looked  back  to 

thee  ! 

Heard  in  his  dreams  thy  river's  sound 
Of  murmuring  on  its  pebbly  bound, 
The  unforgotten  swell  and  roar 
Of  waves  on  thy  familiar  shore  ; 
And  saw,  amidst  the  curtained  gloom 
And  quiet  of  his  lonely  room, 
Thy  sunset  scenes  before  him  pass  ; 
As,  in  Agrippa's  magic  glass, 
The  loved  and  lost  arose  to  view, 
Remembered  groves  in  greenness  grew, 
Bathed   still    in    childhood's    morning 

dew, 

Along  whose  bowers  of  beauty  swept 
Whatever  Memory's  mourners  wept, 
Sweet  faces,  which  the  charnel  kept, 
Young,  gentle  eyes,  which  long  had 

slept  ; 

And  while  the  gazer  leaned  to  trace, 
More  near,  some  dear  familiar  face, 
He  wept  to  find  the  vision  flown,  — 
A  phantom  and  a  dream  alone  ! 


THE  NORSEMEN.80 

GIFT  from  the  cold  and  silent  Past  ! 

A  relic  to  the  present  cast  ; 

Left  on  the  ever-changing  strand 

Of  shifting  and  unstable  sand, 

Which  wastes  beneath  the  steady  chime 

And  beating  of  the  waves  of  Time  ! 

Who  from  its  bed  of  primal  rock 

First    wrenched    thy   dark,    unshapely 

block  ? 

Whose  hand,  of  curious  skill  untaught. 
Thy  rude  and  savage  outline  wrought  ? 

The  waters  of  my  native  stream 
Are  glancing  in  the  sun's  warm  beam  : 
From  sail-urged  keel  and  flashing  oar 
The  circles  widen  to  its  shore  : 
And  cultured  field  and  peopled  town 
Slope  to  its  willowed  margin  down. 
Yet,  while  this  morning  breeze  is  bringing 
The  home-life  sound  of  school-bells  ring 
ing. 

And  rolling  wheel,  and  rapid  jar 
Of  the  fire-winged  and  steedless  car, 
And  voices  from  the  wayside  near 
Come  quick  and  blended  on  my  ear, 
A  spell  is  in  this  old  gray  stone,  — 
My  thoughts  are  with  the  Past  alone  ! 

A  change  ! — The  steepled  town  no  more 

Stretches  along  the  sail-thronged  shore  : 

Like  palace-domes  in  sunset's  cloud, 

Fade  sun-gilt  spire  and  mansion  proud  : 

Spectrally  rising  where  they  stood, 

I  see  the  old,  primeval  wood  : 

Dark,  shadow-like,  on  either  hand 

I  see  its  solemn  Avaste  expand  : 

It  climbs  the  green  and  cultured  hill, 

It  arches  o'er  the  valley's  rill  ; 

And  leans  from  cliff  and  crag,  to  throw 

Its  wild  arms  o'er  the  stream  below. 

Unchanged,  alone,  the  same  bright  rivei 

Flows  on,  as  it  will  flow  forever  ! 

I  listen,  and  I  hear  the  low 

Soft  ripple  where  its  waters  go  ; 

I  hear  behind  the  panther's  cry, 

The  wild-bird's  scream  goes  thrilling  byv 

And  shyly  on  the  river's  brink 

The  deer  is  stooping  down  to  drink. 

But  hark  !  —  from  wood  and  rock  flung 

back, 

What  sound  comes  up  the  Merrimack  ? 
What   sea-worn  barks  are  those  which 

throw 
The  light  spray  from  each  rushing  pro\Y r 


28 


LEGENDARY. 


Have  they  not  in  the  North  Sea's  blast 
Bowed  to  the  waves  the  straining  mast  ? 
Their  frozen  sails  the  low,  pale  sun 
Of  Thule's  night  has  shone  upon  ; 
Flapped  by  the  sea-wind's  gusty  sweep 
Round  icy  drift,  and  headland  steep. 
Wild    Jutland's    wives    and    Lochlin's 

daughters 

Have  watched  them  fading  o'erthe  waters, 
Lesseningthroughdrivingmistandspray, 
Like  white- winged  sea-birds  on  their  way  ! 

Onward  they  glide,  —  and  now  I  view 
Their  iron-armed  and  stalwart  crew  ; 
Joy  glistens  in  each  wild  blue  eye, 
Turned  to  green  earth  and  summer  sky  : 
Each  broad,  seamed  breast  has  cast  aside 
Its  cumbering  vest  of  shaggy  hide  ; 
Bared  to  the  sun  and  soft  warm  air, 
Streams  back  the  Norsemen's  yellow  hair. 
I  see  the  gleam  of  axe  and  spear, 
The  sound  of  smitten  shields  I  hear, 
Keeping  a  harsh  and  fitting  time 
To  Saga's  chant,  and  Runic  rhyme  ; 
Such  lays  as  Zetland's  Scald  has  sung, 
His  gray  and  naked  isles  among  ; 
Or  muttered  low  at  midnight  hour 
Round  Odin's  mossy  stone  of  power. 
The  wolf  beneath  the  Arctic  moon 
Has  answered  to  that  startling  rune  ; 
The  Gael  has  heard  its  stormy  swell, 
The  light  Frank  knows  its  summons  well ; 
lona's  sable-stoled  Culdee 
Has  heard  it  sounding  o'er  the  sea, 
And  swept,  with  hoary  beard  and  hair, 
His  altar's  foot  in  trembling  prayer  ! 

'T  is  past,  —  the  'wildering  vision  dies 
In  darkness  on  my  dreaming  eyes  ! 
The  forest  vanishes  in  air,  — 
Hill-slope  and  vale  lie  starkly  bare  ; 
I  hear  the  common  tread  of  men, 
And  hum  of  work -day  life  again  : 
The  mystic  relic  seems  alone 
A  broken  mass  of  common  stone  ; 
And  if  it  be  the  chiselled  limb 
Of  Berserker  or  idol  grim,  — 
A  fragment  of  Valhalla's  Thor, 
The  stormy  Viking's  god  of  War, 
Or  Praga  of  the  Runic  lay, 
Or  love-awakening  Siona, 
I  know  not,  —  for  no  graven  line, 
Nor  Druid  mark,  nor  Runic  sign, 
Is  left  me  here,  by  which  to  trace 
Its  name,  or  origin,  or  place. 
Yet,  for  this  vision  of  the  Past, 
This  glance  upon  its  darkness  cast, 


My  spirit  bows  in  gratitude 

Before  the  Giver  of  all  good, 

Who  fashioned  so  the  human  mind, 

That,  from  the  waste  of  Time  behind 

A  simple  stone,  or  mound  of  earth, 

Can  summon  the  departed  forth  ; 

Quicken  the  Past  to  life  again,  — 

The  Present  lose  in  what  hath  been, 

And  in  their  primal  freshness  show 

The  buried  forms  of  long  ago. 

As  if  a  portion  of  that  Thought 

By  which  the  Eternal  will  is  wrought. 

Whose  impulse  fills  anew  with  breath 

The  frozen  solitude  of  Death, 

To  mortal  mind  were  sometimes  lent, 

To  mortal  musings  sometimes  sent, 

To  whisper  —  even  when  it  seems 

But  Memory's  fantasy  of  dreams  — 

Th rough  the  mind's  waste  of  woe  and 

sin, 
Of  an  immortal  origin  ! 


CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK. 

1658. 

To  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  my 

blessing  rise  to-day, 
From  the  scoffer  and  the  cruel  He  hath 

plucked  the  spoil  away,  — 
Yea,  He  who  cooled  the  furnace  around 

the  faithful  three, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  hath  set 

his  handmaid  free  ! 

Last  night  I  saw  the  sunset  melt  through 
my  prison  bars, 

Last  night  across  my  damp  earth-floor 
fell  the  pale  gleam  of  stars  ; 

In  the  coldness  and  the  darkness  all 
through  the  long  night-time, 

My  grated  casement  whitened  with  au 
tumn's  early  rime. 

Alone,  in  that   dark  sorrow,  hour  after 

hour  crept  by ; 
Star  after  star  looked  palely  in  and  sank 

adown  the  sky  ; 
No  sound  amid  night's  stillness,  save  that 

which  seemed  to  be 
The  dull  and  heavy  beating  of  the  pulses 

of  the  sea  ; 

All  night  I  sat  unsleeping,  for  I  knew 

that  on  the  morrow 
The  ruler  and  the  cruel  priest  would  mock 

me  in  my  sorrow, 


CASSANDRA   SOUTHWICK. 


Dragged  to   their  place  of  market,  and 

bargained  for  and  sold, 
Like  a  lamb  before  the  shambles,  like  a 

neifer  from  the  fold  ! 

0,  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  was  there,  — 

the  shrinking  and  the  shame  ; 
And  the  low  voice  of  the  Tempter  like 

whispers  to  me  came  : 
"  Why  sit'st  thou  thus  forlornly  ! "  the 

wicked  murmur  said. 
55  Damp  walls  thy  bower  of  beauty,  cold 

earth  thy  maiden  bed  ? 

"  Where  be  the  smiling  faces,  and  voices 

soft  and  sweet, 
Seen  in  thy  father's  dwelling,  heard  in 

the  pleasant  street  ? 
Where  be  the  youths  whose  glances,  the 

summer  Sabbath  through, 
Turned  tenderly  and  timidly  unto  thy 

father's  pew  ? 

"Why  sit'st  thou  here,  Cassandra?  — 

Bethink  thee  with  what  mirth 
Thy  happy  schoolmates  gather  around  the 

warm  bright  hearth  ; 
How   the  crimson  shadows  tremble  on 

foreheads  white  and  fair, 
On  eyes  of  merry  girlhood,  half  hid  in 

golden  hair. 

"  Not  for  thee  the  hearth-fire  brightens, 
not  for  thee  kind  words  are  spoken, 

"Not  for  thee  the  nuts  of  Wenham  woods 
by  laughing  boys  are  broken, 

No  first-fruits  of  the  orchard  within  thy 
lap  are  laid, 

For  thee  no  flowers  of  autumn  the  youth 
ful  hunters  braid. 

"  0,  weak,  deluded  maiden  !  —  by  crazy 
fancies  led, 

With  wild  and  raving  railers  an  evil  path 
to  tread ; 

To  leave  a  wholesome  worship,  and  teach 
ing  pure  and  sound ; 

And  mate  with  maniac  women,  loose- 
haired  and  sackcloth  bound. 

"Mad  scoffers  of  the  priesthood,   who 

mock  at  things  divine, 
Who   rail  against  the  pulpit,  and  holy 

bread  and  wine  ; 
Sore  from  their  cart-tail  scourgings,  and 

from  the  pillory  lame, 
Rejoicing  in   their    wretchedness,    and 

glorying  in  their  shame. 


"  And  what  a  fate  awaits  tnee  ? — a  sadly 

toiling  slave, 
Dragging  the  slowly  lengthening  chain 

of  bondage  to  the  grave  ! 
Think  of  thy  woman's  nature,  subdued 

in  hopeless  thrall, 
The  easy  prey  of  any,  the  scoff  and  scorn 

of  all  !  " 

0,  ever  as  the  Tempter  spoke,  and  feeble 

Nature's  fears 
Wrung  drop  by  drop  the  scalding  flow 

of  unavailing  tears, 
I  wrestled  down  the  evil  thoughts,  and 

strove  in  silent  prayer, 
To  feel,  0   Helper   of  the   weak  !  that 

Thou  indeed  wert  there  ! 

I   thought   of  Paul   and   Silas,    within 

Philippi's  cell, 
And  how  from  Peter's  sleeping  limbs  the 

prison-shackles  fell, 
Till  I  seemed  to  hear  the  trailing  of  an 

angel's  robe  of  white, 
And  to  feel  a  blessed  presence  invisible 

to  sight. 

Bless  the  Lord  for  all  his  mercies  !  —  for 

the  peace  and  love  I  felt, 
Like  dew  of  Hermon's  holy  hill,  upon 

my  spirit  melt  ; 
When  "Get  behind  me,   Satan  !"  was 

the  language  of  my  heart, 
And  I  felt  the  Evil  Tempter  with  all  his 

doubts  depart. 

Slow  broke  the  gray  cold  morning  ;  again 

the  sunshine  fell, 
Flecked  with  the  shade  of  bar  and  grate 

•    within  my  lonely  cell ; 
The  hoar-frost  melted  on  the  wall,  and 

upward  from  the  street 
Came  careless  laugh  and  idle  word,  and 

tread  of  passing  feet. 

At  length  the  heavy  bolts  fell  back,  my 

door  was  open  cast, 
And  slowly  at  the  sheriff's  side,  up  the 

long  street  I  passed  ; 
I  heard  the  murmur  round  me,  and  felt, 

but  dared  not  see, 
How,  from  every  door  and  window,  the 

people  gazed  on  me. 

And  doubt  and  fear  fell  on  me,  shame 
burned  upon  my  cheek, 

Swam  earth  and  sky  around  me,  my 
trembling  limbs  grew  week  : 


50 


LEGENDARY. 


"  0  Lord  <  support  thy  handmaid  ;  and 

from  her  soul  cast  out 
The  fear  of  man,  which  brings  a  snare,  — 

the  weakness  and  the  doubt." 

Then  the  dreary  shadows  scattered,  like 

a  cloud  in  morning's  breeze, 
And  a  low  deep  voice  within  me  seemed 

whispering  words  like  these  : 
"  Though  thy  earth  be  as  the  iron,  and 

thy  heaven  a  brazen  wall, 
Trust  still   His  loving-kindness   whose 

power  is  over  all." 

We  paused  at  length,  where  at  my  feet 

the  sunlit  waters  broke 
On  glaring  reach  of  shining  beach,  and 

shingly  wall  of  rock  ; 
The  merchant-ships  lay  idly  there,  in 

hard  clear  fines  on  high, 
Tracing  with  rope  and  slender  spar  their 

network  on  the  sky. 

And  there  were  ancient  citizens,  cloak- 
wrapped  and  grave  and  cold, 

And  grim  and  stout  sea-captains  with 
faces  bronzed  and  old, 

And  on  his  horse,  with  Rawson,  his  cruel 
clerk  at  hand, 

Sat  dark  and  haughty  Endicott,  the 
ruler  of  the  land. 

And  poisoning  with  his  evil  words  the 
ruler's  ready  ear, 

The  priest  leaned  o'er  his  saddle,  with 
laugh  and  scoff  and  jeer  ; 

It  stirred  my  soul,  and  from  my  lips  the 
seal  of  silence  broke, 

As  if  through  woman's  weakness  a  warn 
ing  spirit  spoke. 

I  cried,  "The  Lord  rebuke  thee,  thou 
smiter  of  the  meek, 

riiou  robber  of  the  righteous,  thou  tram- 
pier  of  the  weak  ! 

Go  light  the  dark,  cold  hearth-stones,  — 
go  turn  the  prison  lock 

Of  the  poor  hearts  thou  hast  hunted,  thou 
wolf  amid  the  flock  !  " 

Dark  lowered   the   brows   of  Endicott, 

and  with  a  deeper  red 
O'er  Rawson's  wine-empurpled  cheek  the 

flush  of  anger  spread  ; 
"  Good  people,"  quoth  the  white-lipped 

priest, ' '  heed  not  her  words  so  wild, 
Her  Master   speaks   within    her,  —  the 

Devil  owns  his  child  ! '' 


But  gray  heads  shook,  and  young  brows 

knit,  the  while  the  sheriff  r^d 
That  law  the  wicked  rulers  against  the 

poor  have  made, 
Who  to  their  house  of  Rimmon  and  idol 

priesthood  bring 
No  bended  knee  of  worship,  nor  gainful 

offering. 

Then  to  the  stout  sea-captains  the  sher° 

iff,  turning,  said,  — 
"  Which  of  ye,  worthy  seamen,  will  take 

this  Quaker  maid  ? 
In  the  Isle  of  fair  Barbadoes,  or  on  Vir» 

ginia's  shore, 
You  may  hold  her  at  a  higher  price  than 

Indian  girl  or  Moor." 

Grim  and  silent  stood  the  captains  ;  and 

when  again  he  cried, 
"  Speak  out,  my  worthy  seamen  !  "  —  no 

voice,  no  sign  replied  ; 
But  I  felt  a  hard  hand  press  my  own, 

and  kind  words  met  my  ear,  — 
"God  bless  thee,  and  preserve  thee,  my 

gentle  girl  and  dear  !  " 

A  weight  seemed  lifted  from  my  heart,  — 

a  pitying  friend  was  nigh, 
I  felt  it  in  his  hard,  rough  hand,  and  saw 

it  in  his  eye  ; 
And  when  again  the  sheriff  spoke,  that 

voice,  so  kind  to  me, 
Growled  back  its  stormy  answer  like  the 

roaring  of  the  sea,  — 

"  Pile  my  ship  with  bars  of  silver,  — pack 

with  coins  of  Spanish  gold, 
From  keel-piece  up  to  deck-plank,  the 

roomage  of  her  hold, 
By  the  living  God  who  made  me  !  —  I 

would  sooner  in  your  bay 
Sink  ship  and  crew  and  cargo,  than  bear 

this  child  away  !  " 

"  Well  answered,  worthy  captain,  shame 

on  their  cruel  laws  !  " 
Ran  through  the  crowd  in  murmurs  loud 


Like  the 


the  people's  just  applause. 

herdsma 
of  old, 


of  Tekoa,  in  Israel 


Shall  we  see  the  poor  and  righteous  again 
for  silver  sold  ?  " 

I  looked  on  haughty  Endicott  ;  with 
weapon  half-way  drawn, 

Swept  round  the  throng  his  lion  glare  of 
bitter  hate  and  scorn  ; 


"  The  solemn  pines  along  its  shore."     Page  31. 


FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS. 


fiercely  he   drew  his  bridle-rein,    and 

turned  in  silence  back, 
And  sneering  priest  and  baffled  clerk  rode 

murmuring  in  his  track. 

Hard  after  them  the  sheriff  looked,  in 

bitterness  of  soul  ; 
Thrice  smote  his  staff  upon  the  ground, 

and  crushed  his  parchment  roll. 
*  Good  friends,"  he  said,    "  since  both 

have  fled,  the  ruler  and  the  priest, 
Judge  ye,  if  from  their  further  work  I 

be  not  well  released." 

Loud  was  the   cheer  which,    full   and 

clear,  swept  round  the  silent  bay, 
&s,  with  kind  words  and  kinder  looks, 

he  bade  me  go  my  way  ; 
For  He  who  turns  the  courses  of  the 

streamlet  of  the  glen, 
And  the  river  of  great  waters,  had  turned 

the  hearts  of  men. 

0,  at  that  hour  the  very  earth  seemed 

changed  beneath  my  eye, 
A  holier  wonder  round  me  rose  the  blue 

walls  of  the  sky, 
A  lovelier  light  on  rock  and  hill  and  stream 

and  woodland  lay, 
And  softer  lapsed  on  sunnier  sands  the 

waters  of  the  bay. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  Lord  of  life  !  —  to 

Him  all  praises  be, 
Who  from  the  hands  of  evil  men  hath 

set  his  handmaid  free  ; 
All  praise  to  Him  before  whose  power 

the  mighty  are  afraid, 
Who  takes  the  crafty  in  the  snare  which 

for  the  poor  is  laid  1 

Sing,  0  my  soul,  rejoicingly,  on  even 
ing's  twilight  calm 

Uplift  the  loud  thanksgiving,  —  pour 
forth  the  grateful  psalm  ; 

Let  all  dear  hearts  with  me  rejoice,  as 
did  the  saints  of  old, 

When  of  the  Lord's  good  angel  the  res 
cued  Peter  told. 

And  weep  and  howl,  ye  evil  priests  and 

mighty  men  of  wrong, 
The  Lord  shall  smite  the  proud,  and  lay 

his  hand  upon  the  strong. 
Woe  to  the  wicked  rulers  in  his  avenging 

hour  ! 
\Vo>}  to  the  wolves  who  seek  the  flocks  to 

raven  and  devour ! 


But  let  the  humble  ones  arise,  — »  the 

poor  in  heart  be  glad, 
And  let  the  mourning  ones  again  with 

robes  of  praise  be  clad, 
For  He   who  cooled  the  furnace,  and 

smoothed  the  stormy  wave, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  is  mighty 

still  to  save  1 


FUNEBAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKI& 
1756. 

AROUND  Sebago's  lonely  lake 
There  lingers  not  a  breeze  to  break 
The  mirror  which  its  waters  make. 

The  solemn  pines  along  its  shore, 

The  firs  which  hang  its  gray  rocks  o'er, 

Are  painted  on  its  glassy  floor. 

The  sun  looks  o'er,  with  hazy  eye, 
The  snowy  mountain-tops  which  lie 
Piled  coldly  up  against  the  sky. 

Dazzling  and  white  !  save  where  the  bleak, 
Wild  winds  have  bared  some  splintering 

peak, 
Or  snow-slide  left  its  dusky  streak. 

Yet  green  are  Saco's  banks  below, 
And  belts  of  spruce  and  cedar  show, 
Dark  fringing  round  those  cones  of  snow. 

The  earth  hath  felt  the  breath  of  spring, 
Though  yet  on  her  deliverer's  wing 
The  lingering  frosts  of  winter  cling. 

Fresh  grasses  fringe  the  meadow-brooks 
And  mildly  from  its  sunny  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks. 

And  odors  from  the  springing  gras^ 
The  sweet  birch  and  the  sassafras, 
Upon  the  scarce-felt  breezes  pass. 

Her  tokens  of  renewing  care 
Hath  Nature  scattered  everywhere, 
In  bud  and  flower,  and  warmer  air, 

But  in  their  hour  of  bitterness, 
What  reck  the  broken  Sokokis, 
Beside  their  slaughtered  chief,  of  this  ? 

The  turfs  red  stain  is  yet  undried,  — 
Scarce  have  the  death-shot  echoes  died 
Along  Sebago's  wooded  side  : 


32 


LEGENDARY. 


And  silent  now  the  hunters  stand, 
Grouped  darkly,  where  a  swell  of  land 
Slopes  upward    from  the  lake's  white 
sand. 

Fire  and  the  axe  have  swept  it  bare, 
Save  one  lone  beech,  unclosing  there 
Its  light  leaves  in  the  vernal  air. 

With  grave,  cold  looks,  all  sternly  mute, 
They  break  the  damp  tuif  at  its  foot, 
And  bare  its  coiled  and  twisted  root. 

They  heave  the  stubborn  trunk  aside, 
The  firm  roots  from  the  earth  divide,  — 
The  rent  beneath  yawns  dark  and  wide. 

And  there  the  fallen  chief  is  laid, 
In  tasselled  garbs  of  skins  arrayed, 
And  girded  with  his  wampum-braid. 

The  silver  cross  he  loved  is  pressed 
Beneath  the  heavy  arms,  which  rest 
Upon  his  scarred  and  naked  breast. 

T  is  done  :  the  roots  are  backward  sent, 
The  beechen-tree  stands  up  unbent,  — 
The  Indian's  fitting  monument  ! 

When  of  that  sleeper's  broken  race 
Their  green  and  pleasant  dwelling-place 
Which  knew  them  once,  retains  no  trace ; 

0,  long  may  sunset's  light  be  shed 
As  now  upon  that  beech's  head,  — 
A  green  memorial  of  the  dead  1 

There  shall  his  fitting  requiem  be, 

In  northern  winds,  that,  cold  and  free, 

Howl  nightly  in  that  funeral  tree. 

To  their  wild  wail  the  waves  Avhich  break 
Forever  round  that  lonely  lake 
A  solemn  undertone  shall  make  ! 

And  who  shall  deem  the  spot  unblest, 
Where  Nature's  younger  children  rest, 
Lulled  on  their  sorrowing  mother's  breast  ? 

Deem  ye  that  mother  loveth  less 
These  bronzed  forms  of  the  wilderness 
She  foldeth  in  her  long  caress  ? 

A.S    sweet  o'er   them  her  wild-flowers 

blow 

A.S  if  with  fairer  hair  and  brow 
The  blue-eyed  Saxon  slept  below. 


What  though  the  places  of  their  rest 
No  priestly  knee  hath  ever  pressed,  — 
No  funeral  rite  nor  prayer  hath  blessed? 

What  though  the  bigot's  ban  be  there, 
And  thoughts  of  wailing  and  despair, 
And  cursing  in  the  place  of  prayer  ! 

Yet  Heaven  hath  angels  watching  round 
The  Indian's  lowliest  forest-mound,  — 
And  they  have  made  it  holy  ground. 

There  ceases  man's  frail  judgment  ;  all 
His  powerless  bolts  of  cursing  fall 
Unheeded  on  that  grassy  pall. 

0,  peeled,  and  hunted,  and  reviled, 
Sleep  on,  dark  tenant  of  the  wild  ! 
Great  Nature  owns  her  simple  child  I 

And  Nature's  God,  to  whom  alone 
The  secret  of  the  heart  is  known,  — 
The  hidden  language  traced  thereon  ; 

Who  from  its  many  cumberings 

Of  form  and  creed,  and  outward  things, 

To  light  the  naked  spirit  brings  ; 

Not  with  our  partial  eye  shall  scan, 
Not  with  our  pride  and  scorn  shall 

ban, 
The  spirit  of  our  brother  man  ! 


ST.    JOHN. 
1647. 

"  To  the  winds  give  our  banner  I 

Bear  homeward  again  ! " 
Cried  the  Lord  of  Acadia, 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne ; 
From  the  prow  of  his  shallop 

He  gazed,  as  the  sun, 
From  its  bed  in  the  ocean, 

Streamed  up  the  St.  Johia. 

O'er  the  blue  western  waters 

That  shallop  had  passed, 
Where  the  mists  of  renobscof 

Clung  damp  on  her  mast. 
St.  Saviour  had  looked 

On  the  heretic  sail, 
As  the  songs  of  the  Huguenot 

Rose  on  the  gale. 

The  pale,  ghostly  fathers 
Remembered  her  well, 


ST.   JOHN. 


33 


And  had  cursed  her  while  passing, 

With  taper  and  bell, 
But  the  men  of  Monhegan, 

Of  Papists  abhorred, 
Had  welcomed  and  feasted 

The  heretic  Lord. 

They  had  loaded  his  shallop 

With  dun -fish  and  ball, 
With  stores  for  his  larder, 

And  steel  for  his  wall. 
Pemequid,  from  her  bastions 

And  turrets  of  stone, 
Had  welcomed  his  coming 

With  banner  and  gun. 

And  the  prayers  of  the  elders 

Had  followed  his  way, 
As  homeward  he  glided, 

Down  Pentecost  Bay. 
0,  well  sped  La  Tour  ! 

For,  in  peril  and  pain, 
His  lady  kept  watch, 

For  his  coming  again. 

O'er  the  Isle  of  the  Pheasant 

The  morning  sun  shone, 
On  the  plane-trees  which  shaded 

The  shores  of  St.  John. 
"Now,  why  from  yon  battlements 

Speaks  not  my  love  ! 
Why  waves  there  no  banner 

My  fortress  above  ?  " 

Dark  and  wild,  from  his  deck 

St.  Estienne  gazed  about, 
On  fire-wasted  dwellings, 

And  silent  redoubt  ; 
From  the  low,  shattered  walls 

Which  the  flame  had  o'errun, 
There  floated  no  banner, 

There  thundered  no  gun  ! 

But  beneath  the  low  arch 

Of  its  doorway  there  stood 
A  pale  priest  of  Rome, 

In  his  cloak  and  his  hood. 
With  the  bound  of  a  lion, 

La  Tour  sprang  to  land, 
On  the  throat  of  the  Papist 

He  fastened  his  hand. 

"Speak,  son  of  the  Woman 

Of  scarlet  and  sin  ! 
What  wolf  has  been  prowling 

My  castle  within  ? " 
3 


From  the  grasp  of  the  soldier 

The  Jesuit  broke, 
Half  in  scorn,  half  in  sorrow, 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke  : 

"  No  wolf,  Lord  of  Estienne, 

Has  ravaged  thy  hall, 
But  thy  red-handed  rival, 

With  fire,  steel,  and  ball  ! 
On  an  errand  of  mercy 

I  hitherward  came, 
While  the  walls  of  thy  castle 

Yet  spouted  with  flame. 

"  Pentagoet's  dark  vessels 

Were  moored  in  the  bay, 
Grim  sea-lions,  roaring 

Aloud  for  their  prey." 
"  But  what  of  my  lady  ? " 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne  : 
"  On  the  shot-crumbled  turret 

Thy  lady  was  seen  : 

"Half- veiled  in  the  smoke-clou<i, 

Her  hand  grasped  thy  pennon, 
While  her  dark  tresses  swayed 

In  the  hot  breath  of  cannon  ! 
But  woe  to  the  heretic, 

Evermore  woe  ! 
When  the  son  of  the  church 

And  the  cross  is  his  foe  ! 

"  In  the  track  of  the  shell, 

In  the  path  of  the  ball, 
Peritagoet  swept  over 

The  breach  of  the  wall  ! 
Steel  to  steel,  gun  to  gun, 

One  moment,  —  and  then 
Alone  stood  the  victor, 

Alone  with  his  men  ! 

"  Of  its  sturdy  defenders, 

Thy  lady  alone 
Saw  the  cross-blazoned  banner 

Float  over  St.  John." 
"  Let  the  dastard  look  to  it  !  " 

Cried  fiery  Estienne, 
"Were  D'Aulney  King  Louis, 

I  'd  free  her  again  !  " 

"  Alas  for  thy  lady  ! 

No  service  from  thee 
Is  needed  by  her 

Whom  the  Lord  hath  set  free  : 
Nine  days,  in  stern  silence, 

Her  thraldom  she  bore, 


34 


LEGENDARY. 


But  the  tenth  morning  came, 
And  Death  opened  her  door  !  " 

As  if  suddenly  smitten 

La  Tour  staggered  back  ; 
His  hand  grasped  his  sword-hilt, 

His  forehead  grew  black. 
He  sprang  on  the  deck 

Of  his  shallop  again. 
"  "We  cruise  now  for  vengeance  ! 

Give  way  !  "  cried  Estienne. 

"  Massachusetts  shall  hear 

Of  the  Huguenot's  wrong, 
And  from  island  and  creekside 

Her  fishers  shall  throng  ! 
Pentagoet  shall  rue 

What  his  Papists  have  done, 
When  his  palisades  echo 

The  Puritan's  gun  !  " 

0,  the  loveliest  of  heavens 

Hung  tenderly  o'er  him, 
There  were  waves  in  the  sunshine, 

And  green  isles  before  him  : 
But  a  pale  hand  was  beckoning 

The  Huguenot  on  ; 
And  in  blackness  arid  ashes 

Behind  was  St.  John  ! 


PENTUCKET. 

1708. 

How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 
The  mellow  light  of  sunset  shone  ! 
Each  small,  bright  lake,  whose  waters  still 
Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill, 
Reflected  from  its  waveless  breast 
The  beauty  of  a  cloudless  west, 
Glorious  as  if  a  glimpse  were  given 
Within  the  western  gates  of  heaven, 
Left,  by  the  spirit  of  the  star 
Of  sunset's  holy  hour,  ajar  ! 

Beside  the  river's  tranquil  flood 
The  dark  and  low- walled  dwellings  stood, 
Where  many  a  rood  of  open  land 
Stretched  up  and  down  on  either  hand, 
With  corn-leaves  waving  freshly  green 
The  thick  and  blackened  stumps  between. 
Behind,  unbroken,  deep  and  dread, 
The  wild,  untravelled  forest  spread, 
Back  to  those  mountains,  white  and  cold, 
Of  which  the  Indian  trapper  told, 
Upon  whose  summits  never  yet 
Was  mortal  foot  in  safety  set. 


Quiet  and  calm,  without  a  fear 
Of  danger  darkly  lurking  near, 
The  weary  laborer  left  his  plough,  — 
The  milkmaid  carolled  by  her  cow,  — 
From  cottage  door  and  household  hearth 
Rose  songs  of  praise,  or  tones  of  mirth. 
At  length  the  murmur  died  away, 
And  silence  on  that  village  lay,  — 
So  slept  Pompeii,  tower  and  hall, 
Ere  the  quick  earthquake  swallowed  all, 
Undreaming  of  the  fiery  fate 
Which  made  its  dwellings  desolate  ! 

Hours  passed  away.     By  moonlight  sped 
The  Merrimack  along  his  bed. 
Bathed  in  the  pallid  lustre,  stood 
Dark  cottage-wall  and  rock  and  wood, 
Silent,  beneath  that  tranquil  beam, 
As  the  hushed  grouping  of  a  dream. 
Yet  on  the  still  air  crept  a  sound,  — 
No  bark  of  fox,  nor  rabbit's  bound, 
Nor  stir  of  wings,  nor  waters  flowing, 
Nor  leaves  in  midnight  breezes  blowing. 

Was  that  the  tread  of  many  feet, 
Which  downward  from  the  hillside  beat  ? 
What   forms   were    those  which  darkly 

stood 

Just  on  the  margin  of  the  wood  ?  — 
Charred  tree-stumps  in  the   moonlight 

dim, 

Or  paling  rude,  or  leafless  limb  ? 
No,  —  through  the  trees  fierce  eyeballs 

glowed, 

Dark  human  forms  in  moonshine  showed, 
Wild  from  their  native  wilderness, 
With  painted  limbs  and  battle-dress  ! 

A  yell  the  dead  might  wake  to  hear 
Swelled  on  the  night  air,  far  and  clear,  — 
Then  smote  the  Indian  tomahawk 
On  crashing  door  and  shattering  lock,  -- 
Then  rang  the  rifle-shot,  —  and  then 
The    shrill    death-scream    of    stricken 

men,  — 

Sank  the  red  axe  in  woman's  brain, 
And  childhood's  cry  arose  in  vain,  — 
Bursting  through  roof  and  window  came, 
Red,  fast,  and  fierce,  the  kindled  flame  ; 
And  blended  fire  and  moonlight  glared 
On  still  dead  men  and  weapons  bared. 

The  morning  sun  looked  brightly  through 
The  river  willows,  wet  with  dew. 
No  sound  of  combat  filled  the  air,  — 
Noshout was  heard,  —  norgunshot there' 
Yet  still  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 


THE   FAMILIST'S   HYMN. 


35 


From  smouldering  ruins  slowly  broke  ; 
And  on  the  greensward  many  a  stain, 
And,  here  and  there,  the  mangled  slain, 
Told  how  that  midnight  bolt  had  sped 
Pentucket,  on  thy  fated  head  ! 

Even  now  the  villager  can  tell 
Where  Rolfe  beside  his  hearthstone  fell, 
Still  show  the  door  of  wasting  oak, 
Through  which  the  fatal  death-shot  broke, 
And  point  the  curious  stranger  where 
De  Rouville's  corse  lay  grim  and  bare,  — 
Whose  hideous  head,  in  death  still  feared, 
Bore  not  a  trace  of  hair  or  beard,  — 
And  still,  within  the  churchyard  ground, 
Heaves  darkly  up  the  ancient  mound, 
Whose  grass-grown  surface  overlies 
The  victims  of  that  sacrifice. 


THE  FAMILIST'S  HYMN. 

FATHER  !  to  thy  suffering  poor 

Strength  and  grace  *md  faith  impart, 
And  with  thy  own  love  restore 

Comfort  to  the  broken  heart ! 
0,  the  failing  ones  confirm 

With  a  holier  strength  of  zeal  !  — 
Give  thou  not  the  feeble  worm 

Helpless  to  the  spoiler's  heel ! 

Father  !  for  thy  holy  sake 

We  are  spoiled  and  hunted  thus  ; 
Joyful,  for  thy  truth  we  take 

Bonds  and  burthens  unto  us  : 
Poor,  and  weak,  and  robbed  of  all, 

Weary  with  our  daily  task, 
That  thy  truth  may  never  fall 

Through  our  weakness,  Lord,  we  ask. 

Round  our  fired  and  wasted  homes 

Flits  the  forest-bird  unscared, 
And  at  noon  the  wild  beast  comes 

Where  our  frugal  meal  was  shared  ; 
For  the  song  of  praises  there 

Shrieks  the  crow  the  livelong  day  ; 
For  the  sound  of  evening  prayer 

Howls  the  evil  beast  of  prey  ! 

Sweet  the  songs  we  loved  to  sing 

Underneath  thy  holy  sky,  — 
Words  and  tones  that  used  to  bring 

Tears  of  joy  in  every  eye,  — 
Dear  the  wrestling  hours  of  prayer, 

When  we  gathered  knee  to  knee, 
Blameless  youth  and  hoary  hair, 

Bowed.  0  God.  alone  to  thee. 


As  thine  early  children,  Lord, 

Shared  their  wealth  and  daily  bread, 
Even  so,  with  one  accord, 

We,  in  love,  each  other  fed. 
Not  with  us  the  miser's  hoard, 

Not  with  us  his  grasping  hand  ; 
Equal  round  a  common  board, 

Drew  our  meek  and  brother  band  ! 

Safe  our  quiet  Eden  lay 

When    the    war-whoop    stirred    the 

land 
And  the  Indian  turned  away 

From  our  home  his  bloody  hand. 
Well  that  forest-ranger  saw, 

That  the  burthen  and  the  curse 
Of  the  white  man's  cruel  law 

Rested  also  upon  us. 

Torn  apart,  and  driven  forth 

To  our  toiling  hard  and  long, 
Father  !  from  the  dust  of  earth 

Lift  we  still  our  grateful  song  ! 
Grateful,  —  that  in  bonds  we  share 

In  thy  love  which  maketh  free  ; 
Joyful,  — that  the  wrongs  we  bear, 

Draw  us  nearer,  Lord,  to  thee  ! 

Grateful '  —  that  where'er  we  toil,  — 

By  Wachuset's  wooded  side, 
On  Nantucket's  sea-worn  isle, 

Or  by  wild  Neponset's  tide,  — 
Still,  in  spirit,  we  are  near, 

And  our  evening  hymns,  which  rise 
Separate  and  discordant  here, 

Meet  and  mingle  in  the  skies  ! 

Let  the  scoffer  scorn  and  mock, 

Let  the  proud  and  evil  priest 
Rob  the  needy  of  his  flock, 

For  his  wine-cup  and  his  feast,  — 
Redden  not  thy  bolts  in  store 

Through  the  blackness  of  thy  skies  ? 
For  the  sighing  of  the  poor 

Wilt  Thou  not,  at  length,  arise  ? 

Worn  and  wasted,  oh  !  how  long 

Shall  thy  trodden  poor  complain  ? 
In  thy  name  they  bear  the  wrong, 

In  thy  cause  the  bonds  of  pain  ! 
Melt  oppression's  heart  of  steel, 

Let  the  haughty  priesthood  see, 
And  their  blinded  followers  feel, 

That  in  us  they  mock  at  Thee  ! 

In  thy  time,  0  Lord  of  hosts, 
Stretch  abroad  that  hand  to  save 


36 


LEGENDARY. 


Which  of  old,  on  Egypt's  coasts, 
Smote  apart  the  Red  Sea's  wave  ! 

Lead  us  from  this  evil  land, 
From  the  spoiler  set  us  free, 

And  once  more  our  gathered  band, 
Heart  to  heart,  shall  worship  thee 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 

TRAVELLER  !  on  thy  journey  toiling 

By  the  swift  Powow, 
With  the  summer  sunshine  falling 

On  thy  heated  brow, 
Listen,  while  all  else  is  still, 
To  the  brooklet  from  the  hill. 

Wild  and  sweet  the  flowers  are  blowing 

By  that  streamlet's  side, 
And  a  greener  verdure  showing 

Where  its  waters  glide,  — 
Down  the  hill-slope  murmuring  on, 
Over  root  and  mossy  stone. 

Where  yon  oak  his  broad  arms  flingeth 

O'er  the  sloping  hill, 
Beautiful  and  freshly  springeth 

That  soft-flowing  rill, 
Through  its   dark  roots  wreathed  and 

bare, 
Gushing  up  to  sun  and  air. 

Brighter  waters  sparkled  never 

In  that  magic  well, 
Of  whose  gift  of  life  forever 

Ancient  legends  tell,  — 
In  the  lonely  desert  wasted, 
And  by  mortal  lip  untasted. 

Waters  which  the  proud  Castilian  31 

Sought  with  longing  eyes, 
Underneath  the  bright  pavilion 

Of  the  Indian  skies  ; 
Where  his  forest  pathway  lay 
Through  the  blooms  of  Florida. 

Y^ears  ago  a  lonely  stranger, 

With  the  dusky  brow 
Of  the  outcast  forest-ranger, 

Crossed  the  swift  Powow  ; 
And  betook  him  to  the  rill 
And  the  oak  upon  the  hill. 

O'er  his  face  of  moody  sadness 

For  an  instant  shone 
Something  like  a  gleam  of  gladness, 

As  he  stooped  him  down 


To  the  fountain's  grassy  side, 
And  his  eager  thirst  supplied. 

With  the  oak  its  shadow  throwing 

O'er  his  mossy  seat,  • 
And  the  cool,  sweet  waters  flowing 

Softly  at  his  feet, 
Closely  by  the  fountain's  rim 
That  lone  Indian  seated  him. 

Autumn's  earliest  frost  had  given 

To  the  woods  below 
Hues  of  beauty,  such  as  heaven 

Lendeth  to  its  bow  ; 
And  the  soft  breeze  from  the  west 
Scarcely  broke  their  dreamy  rest. 

Far  behind  was  Ocean  striving 

With  his  chains  of  sand  ; 
Southward,  sunny  glimpses  giving, 

'Twixt  the  swells  of  land, 
Of  its  calm  and  silvery  track, 
Eolled  the  tranquil  Merrimack. 

Over  village,  wood,  and  meadow 

Gazed  that  stranger  man, 
Sadly,  till  the  twilight  shadow 

Over  all  things  ran, 
Save  where  spire  and  westward  pane 
Flashed  the  sunset  back  again. 

Gazing  thus  upon  the  dwelling 

Of  his  warrior  sires, 
Where  no  lingering  trace  was  telling 

Of  their  wigwam  fires, 
Who  the  gloomy  thoughts  might  know 
Of  that  wandering  child  of  Avoe  ? 

Naked  lay,  in  sunshine  glowing, 

Hills  that  once  had  stood 
Down  their  sides  the  shadows  throw 
ing 

Of  a  mighty  wood, 
Where  the  deer  his  covert  kept, 
And  the  eagle's  pinion  swept  ! 

Where  the  birch  canoe  had  glided 

Down  the  swift  Powow, 
Dark  and  gloomy  bridges  strided 

Those  clear  wa.ters  now  ; 
And  where  once  the  beaver  swam, 
Jarred  the  wheel  and  frowned  the  dam, 

For  the  wood-bird's  merry 

And  the  hunter's  cheer. 
Iron  clang  and  hammer's  ringing 

Smote  upon  his  ear  ; 


THE  EXILES. 


37 


And  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  the  blackened  forges  broke. 

Could  it  be  his  fathers  ever 

Loved  to  linger  here  ? 
These  bare  hills,  this  conquered  river, 

Could  they  hold  them  dear, 
With  their  native  loveliness 
Tamed  and  tortured  into  this  ? 

Sadly,  as  the  shades  of  even 

Gathered  o'er  the  hill, 
While  the  western  half  of  heaven 

Blushed  with  sunset  still, 
From  the  fountain's  mossy  seat 
Turned  the  Indian's  weary  feet. 

Year  on  year  hath  flown  forever, 

But  he  came  no  more 
To  the  hillside  or  the  river 

Where  he  came  before. 
But  the  villager  can  tell 
Of  that  strange  man's  visit  well. 

And  the  merry  children,  laden 
With  their  fruits  or  flowers,  — 

Roving  boy  and  laughing  maiden, 
In  their  school-day  hours, 

Love  the  simple  tale  to  tell 

Of  the  Indian  and  his  well. 


V      THE  EXILES.  / 
1660. 

THE  goodman  sat  beside  his  door 

One  siiltry  afternoon, 
With  his  young  wife  singing  at  his  side 

An  old  and  goodly  tune. 

A  glimmer  of  heat  was  in  the  air  ; 

The  dark  green  woods  were  still  ; 
And  the  skirts  of  a  heavy  thunder-cloud 

Hung  over  the  western  hill. 

Black,  thick,  and  vast  arose  that  cloud 

Above  the  wilderness, 
As  some  dark  world  from  upper  air 

Were  stooping  over  this. 

At  times  the  solemn  thunder  pealed, 

And  all  was  still  again, 
Save  a  low  murmur  in  the  air 

Of  coming  wind  and  rain. 

Just  as  the  first  big  rain-drop  fell, 
A  weary  stranger  came, 


And  stood  before  the  farmer's  door, 
With  travel  soiled  and  lame. 

Sad  seemed  he,  yet  sustaining  hope 

Was  in  his  quiet  glance, 
And  peace,    like   autumn's  moonlight, 
clothed 

His  tranquil  countenance. 

A  look,  like  that  his  Master  wore 

In  Pilate's  council-hall : 
It  told  of  wrongs,  —  but  of  a  love 

Meekly  forgiving  all. 

"Friend!     wilt  thou  give  me   shelter 
here  ? " 

The  stranger  meekly  said  ; 
And,  leaning  on  his  oaken  staff, 

The  goodman's  features  read. 

"  My  life  is  hunted,  —  evil  men 

Are  following  in  my  track  ; 
The  traces  of  the  torturer's  whip 

Are  on  my  aged  back. 

"And  much,  I  fear,  't  will  peril  thee 

Within  thy  doors  to  take 
A  hunted  seeker  of  the  Truth, 

Oppressed  for  conscience'  sake." 

0,  kindly  spoke  the  goodman's  wife,  — 
"  Come  in,  old  man  !  "  quoth  she,  — 

"  We  will  not  leave  thee  to  the  storm, 
Whoever  thou  mayst  be." 

Then  came  the  aged  wanderer  in, 

And  silent  sat  him  down  ; 
While  all  within  grew  dark  as  night 

Beneath  the  storm-cloud's  frown. 

But  while  the  sudden  lightning's  blaze 

Filled  every  cottage  nook, 
And  with  the  jarring  thunder-roll 

The  loosened  casements  shook, 

A  heavy  tramp  of  horses'  feet 

Came  sounding  up  the  lane, 
And  half  a  score  of  horse,  or  more, 

Came  plunging  through  the  rain. 

"Now,  Goodman  Macey,  ope  thy  door,  — 
We  would  not  be  house-breakers  ; 

A  rueful  deed  thou  'st  done  this  day, 
In  harboring  banished  Quakers." 

Out  looked  the  cautious  goodman  then, 
With  much  of  fear  and  awe, 


38 


LEGENDARY. 


For  there,  with  broad  wig  drenched  with 

rain, 
The  parish  priest  he  saw. 

"  Open  thy  door,  thou  wicked  man, 

And  let  thy  pastor  in, 
And  give  God  thanks,  if  forty  stripes 

Repay  thy  deadly  sin." 

"What  seek  ye  ?  "  quoth  the  goodman,  — 
"  The  stranger  is  my  guest : 

He    is    worn  with  toil    and    grievous 

wrong,  — 
Pray  let  the  old  man  rest." 

"  Now,  out  upon  thee,  canting  knave  !  " 
And  strong  hands  shook  the  door. 

"  Believe     me,     Macey,"     quoth     the 

priest,  — 
"  Thou  'It  rue  thy  conduct  sore." 

Then  kindled  Macey's  eye  of  fire  : 
' '  No  priest  who  walks  the  earth, 

Shall  pluck  away  the  stranger-guest 
Made  welcome  to  my  hearth." 

Down  from  his  cottage  wall  he  caught 

The  matchlock,  hotly  tried 
At  Preston-pans  and  Marston-moor, 

By  fiery  Ireton's  side  ; 

Where  Puritan,  and  Cavalier, 

With  shout  and  psalm  contended  ; 

And    Eupert's    oath,    and    Cromwell's 

prayer, 
With  battle-thunder  blended. 

Up  rose  the  ancient  stranger  then  : 

' '  My  spirit  is  not  free 
To  bring  the  wrath  and  violence 

Of  evil  men  on  thee  : 

"  And  for  thyself,  I  pray  forbear,  — 

Bethink  thee  of  thy  Lord, 
Who  healed  again  the  smitten  ear, 

And  sheathed  his  follower's  sword. 

"  I  go,  as  to  the  slaughter  led  : 
Friends  of  the  poor,  farewell  !  " 

Beneath  his  hand  the  oaken  door 
Back  on  its  hinges  fell. 

"Come  forth,  old  graybeard,  yea  and 
nay," 

The  reckless  scoffers  cried, 
A.S  to  a  horseman's  saddle-bow 

The  old  man's  arms  were  tied. 


And  of  his  bondage  hard  and  long 

In  Boston's  crowded  jail, 
Where    suffering   woman's    prayer    was 
heard, 

With  sickening  childhood's  wail, 

It  suits  not  with  our  tale  to  tell  : 
Those  scenes  have  passed  away,  — 

Let  the  dim  shadows  of  the  past 
Brood  o'er  that  evil  day. 

"Ho,     sheriff!"     quoth     the     ardent 
priest,  — 

"  Take  Goodman  Macey  too  ; 
The  sin  of  this  day's  heresy 

His  back  or  purse  shall  rue." 

"Now,  goodwife,  haste  thee!"  Macey 
cried, 

She  caught  his  manly  arm  :  — 
Behind,  the  parson  urged  pursuit, 

With  outcry  and  alarm. 

Ho  !  speed  the  Macey  s,  neck  or  naught,— 
The  river-course  was  near  :  — 

The  plashing  on  its  pebbled  shore 
Was  music  to  their  ear. 

A  gray  rock,  tasselled  o'er  with  birch, 

Above  the  waters  hung, 
And  at  its  base,  with  every  wave, 

A  small  light  wherry  swung. 

A  leap  —  they  gain  the  boat  —  and  there 
The  goodman  wields  his  oar  : 

"111  luck  betide  them  all,"  —  he  cried,  — 
' '  The  laggards  upon  the  shore. " 

Down  through  the  crashing  underwood, 

The  burly  sheriff  came  :  — 
"Stand,  Goodman  Macey, — yield  thy 
self  ; 

Yield  in  the  King's  own  name." 

"  Now  out  upon  thy  hangman's  face  !  " 
Bold  Macey  answered  then,  — 

"Whip  women,  on  the  village  green, 
But  meddle  not  with  men." 

The  priest  came  panting  to  the  shore,  — 
His  grave  cocked  hat  was  gone  ; 

Behind  him,  like  some  owl's  nest,  hung 
His  wig  upon  a  thorn. 

"  Come  back,  — come  back  !  "  the  par- 

son  cried, 
"The  church's  curse  beware." 


THE   EXILES. 


39 


"Curse,  an'  thouwilt,"  saidMacey,  "but 
Thy  blessing  prithee  spare." 

' '  Vile  scoffer ! "  cried  the  baffled  priest,  — 
"  Thou  'It  yet  the  gallows  see." 

"  Who  's  born  to  be  hanged,  will  not  be 

drowned," 
Quoth  Macey,  merrily  ; 

"And  so,  sir  sheriff  and  priest,  good  by  !  " 

He  bent  him  to  his  oar, 
And  the  small  boat  glided  quietly 

From  the  twain  upon  the  shore. 

Now  in  the  west,  the  heavy  clouds 

Scattered  and  fell  asunder, 
While  feebler  came  the  rush  of  rain, 

And  fainter  growled  the  thunder. 

And  through  the  broken  clouds,  the  sun 
Looked  out  serene  and  warm, 

Painting  its  holy  symbol-light 
Upon  the  passing  storm. 

0,  beautiful  !  that  rainbow  span, 
O'er  dim  Crane-neck  was  bended  ;  — 

One  bright  foot  touched  the  eastern  hills, 
And  one  with  ocean  blended. 

By  green  Pentucket's  southern  slope 

"The  small  boat  glided  fast,  — 
The  watchers  of  "the  Block-house"  saw 
The  strangers  as  they  passed. 

That  night  a  stalwart  garrison 

Sat  snaking  in  their  shoes, 
To  hear  the  dip  of  Indian  oars,  — 

The  glide  of  birch  canoes. 

The  fisher- wives  of  Salisbury, 

(The  men  were  all  away,) 
Looked  out  to  see  the  stranger  oar 

Upon  their  waters  play. 

Deer- Island's  rocks  and  fir- trees  threw 
Their  sunset-shadows  o'er  them, 

And  Newbury's  spire  and  weathercock 
Peered  o'er  the  pines  before  them. 

Around  the  Black  Rocks,  on  their  left, 
The  marsh  lay  broad  and  green  ; 

And  on  their  right,  with  dwarf  shrubs 

crowned, 
Plum  Island's  hills  were  seen. 

With  skilful  hand  and  wary  eye 
The  harbor-bar  was  crossed ;  — 


A  plaything  of  the  restless  wave, 
The  boat  on  ocean  tossed. 

The  glory  of  the  sunset  heaven 

On  land  and  water  lay,  — 
On  the  steep  hills  of  Agawam, 

On  cape,  and  bluff,  and  bay. 

They  passed  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann, 
And  Gloucester's  harbor-bar  ; 

The  \Xatch-fire  of  the  garrison 
Shone  like  a  setting  star. 

How  brightly  broke  the  morning 

On  Massachusetts  Bay  ! 
Blue  wave,  and  bright  green  island, 

Rejoicing  in  the  day. 

On  passed  the  bark  in  safety 

Round  isle  and  headland  steep,  — 

No  tempest  broke  above  them, 
No  fog-cloud  veiled  the  deep. 

Far  round  the  bleak  and  stormy  Cape 
The  vent'rous  Macey  passed, 

And  on  Nantucket's  naked  isle 
Drew  up  his  boat  at  last. 

And  how,  in  log-built  cabin, 

They  braved  the  rough  sea-weather  ; 
And  there,  in  peace  and  quietness, 

Went  down  life's  vale  together  : 

How  others  drew  around  them, 
And  how  their  fishing  sped, 

Until  to  every  wind  of  heaven 
Nantucket's  sails  were  spread  ; 

How  pale  Want  alternated 
With  Plenty's  golden  smile  ; 

Behold,  is  it  not  written 
In  the  annals  of  the  isle  ? 

And  yet  that  isle  remaineth 

A  refuge  of  the  free, 
As  when  true-hearted  Macey 

Beheld  it  from  the  sea. 

Free  as  the  winds  that  winnow 
Her  shrubless  hills  of  sand,  — 

Free  as  the  waves  that  batter 
Along  her  yielding  land. 

Than  hers,  at  duty's  summons, 

No  loftier  spirit  stirs,  — 
Nor  falls  o'er  human  suffering 

A  readier  tear  than  hers. 


40 


LEGENDARY. 


God  bless  the  sea-beat  island  !  — 

And  grant  forevermore, 
That  charity  and  freedom  dwell 

As  now  upon  her  shore  ! 

THE  NEW   WIFE  AND  THE  OLD. 

DARK  the  halls,  and  cold  the  feast,  — 
Gone  the  bridemaids,  gone  the  priest : 
All  is  over,  —  all  is  done, 
Twain  of  yesterday  are  one  ! 
Blooming  girl  and  manhood  gray, 
Autumn  in  the  arms  of  May  ! 

Hushed  within  and  hushed  without, 
Dancing  feet  and  wrestlers'  shout  ; 
Dies  the  bonfire  on  the  hill ; 
All  is  dark  and  all  is  still, 
Save  the  starlight,  save  the  breeze 
Moaning  through  the  graveyard  trees  ; 
And  the  great  sea- waves  below, 
Pulse  of  the  midnight  beating  slowr. 

From  the  brief  dream  of  a  bride 
She  hath  wakened,  at  his  side. 
With  half-uttered  shriek  and  start,  — 
Feels  she  not  his  beating  heart  ? 
And  the  pressure  of  his  arm, 
And  his  breathing  near  and  warm  ? 

Lightly  from  the  bridal  bed 
Springs  that  fair  dishevelled  head, 
And  a  feeling,  new,  intense, 
Half  of  shame,  half  innocence, 
Maiden  fear  and  wonder  speaks 
Through  her  lips  and  changing  cheeks. 

From  the  oaken  mantel  glowing 
Faintest  light  the  lamp  is  throwing 
On  the  mirror's  antique  mould, 
High-backed  chair,  and  wainscot  old, 
And,  through  faded  curtains  stealing, 
His  dark  sleeping  face  revealing. 

Listless  lies  the  strong  man  there, 
Silver- streaked  his  careless  hair  ; 
Lips  of  love  have  left  no  trace 
On  that  hard  and  haughty  face  ; 
And  that  forehead's  knitted  thought 
Love's  soft  hand  hath  not  unwrought. 

"  Yet,"  she  sighs,  ' '  he  loves  me  well, 
More  than  these  calm  lips  will  tell. 
Stooping  to  my  lowly  state, 
He  hath  made  me  rich  and  great, 
And  I  bless  him,  though  he  be 
Hard  and  stern  to  all  save  me  !  " 


While  she  speaketh,  falls  the  light 
O'er  her  fingers  small  and  white  ; 
Gold  and  gem,  and  costly  ring 
Back  the  timid  lustre  fling,  — 
Love's  selectest  gifts,  and  rare, 
His  proud  hand  had  fastened  there. 

Gratefully  she  marks  the  glow 
From  those  tapering  lines  of  snow  ; 
Fondly  o'er  the  sleeper  bending 
His  black  hair  with  golden  blending, 
In  her  soft  and  light  caress, 
Cheek  and  lip  together  press. 

Ha  !  —  that  start  of  horror  !  —  Why 
That  wild  stare  and  wilder  cry, 
Full  of  terror,  full  of  pain  ? 
Is  there  madness  in  her  brain  ? 
Hark  !  that  gasping,  hoarse  and  low, 
"  Spare     me,  —  spare     me,  —  let     me 
go  !" 

God  have  mercy  !  —  Icy  cold 
Spectral  hands  her  own  enfold, 
Drawing  silently  from  them 
Love's  fair  gifts  of  gold  and  gem, 
"Waken  !  save  me  !  "  still  as  death 
At  her  side  he  slumbereth. 

Bing  and  bracelet  all  are  gone, 

And  that  ice-cold  hand  withdrawn  ; 

But  she  hears  a  murmur  low, 

Full  of  sweetness,  full  of  woe, 

Half  a  sigh  and  half  a  moan  : 

"  Fear  not  !  give  the  dead  her  own  !  " 

Ah  !  —  the  dead  wife's  voice  she  knows! 
That  cold  hand,  whose  pressure  froze, 
Once  in  warmest  life  had  borne 
Gem  and  band  her  own  hath  worn. 
"Wake  thee!    wake  thee  !  "     Lo,   his 

eyes 
Open  with  a  dull  surprise. 

In  his  arms  the  strong  man  folds  her, 
Closer  to  his  breast  he  holds  her  ; 
Trembling  limbs  his  own  are  meeting, 
And  he  feels  her  heart's  quick  beating  : 
"  Nay,  my  dearest,  why  this  fear  '!  " 
"Hush!"  shesaith,  "  the  dead  is  here  !" 

"  Nay,  a  dream,  —  an  idle  dream." 
But  before  the  lamp's  pale  gleam 
Tremblingly  her  hand  she  raises,  — 
There  no  more  the  diamond  blazes, 
Clasp  of  pearl,  or  ring  of  gold,  — 
' '  Ah ! "  she  sighs,  ' '  her  hand  was  cold .'  * 


TOUSSAINT   L'OUVERTURE. 


41 


Broken  words  of  cheer  he  saith, 
But  his  dark  lip  quivereth, 
And  as  o'er  the  past  he  thinketh. 
From  his  young  wife's  arms  heshrinketh ; 
Can  those  soft  arms  round  him  lie, 
Underneath  his  dead  wife's  eye  ? 

She  her  fair  young  head  can  rest 
Soothed  and  childlike  on  his  breast, 
And  in  trustful  innocence 
Draw  new  strength  and  courage  thence  ; 
He,  the  proud  man,  feels  within 
But  the  cowardice  of  sin  ! 

She  can  murmur  in  her  thought 
Simple  prayers  her  mother  taught, 
And  His  blessed  angels  call, 
Whose  great  love  is  over  all ; 
He,  alone,  in  prayerless  pride, 
Meets  the  dark  Past  at  her  side  ! 


One,  who  living  shrank  with  dread 
From  his  look,  or  word,  or  tread, 
Unto  whom  her  early  grave 
Was  as  freedom  to  the  slave, 
Moves  him  at  this  midnight  hour, 
With  the  dead's  unconscious  power  ! 

Ah,  the  dead,  the  unforgot  ! 

From  their  solemn  homes  of  thought, 

Where  the  cypress  shadows  blend 

Darkly  over  foe  and  friend, 

Or  in  love  or  sad  rebuke, 

Back  upon  the  living  look. 

And  the  tenderest  ones  and  weakest, 
Who  their  wrongs  have  borne  the  meekest. 
Lifting  from  those  dark,  still  places. 
Sweet  and  sad-remembered  faces, 
O'er  the  guilty  hearts  behind 
An  unwitting  triumph  find. 


VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE.32 

'T  WAS  night.     The  tranquil  moonlight 

smile 
With  which  Heaven  dreams  of  Earth, 

shed  down 
Its  beauty  on  the  Indian  isle,  — 

On  broad  green  field  and  white-walled 

town  ; 

And  inland  waste  of  rock  and  wood, 
In  searching  sunshine,  wild  and  rude, 
Rose,  mellowed  through  the  silver  gleam, 
Soft  as  the  landscape  of  a  dream, 
All  motionless  and  dewy  wet, 
Tree,  vine,  and  flower  in  shadow  met  : 
The  myrtle  with  its  snowy  bloom, 
Crossing      the      nightshade's       solemn 

gloom,  — 

The  white  cecropia's  silver  rind 
Relieved  by  deeper  green  behind,  — 
The  orange  with  its  fruit  of  gold,  — 
The  lithe  paullinia's  verdant  fold,  — 
The  passion-flower,  with  symbol  holy, 
Twining  its  tendrils  long  and  lowly,  — 
The  rhexias  dark,  and  cassia  tall, 
And  proudly  rising  over  all, 
The  kingly  palm's  imperial  stem, 
Crowned  with  its  leafy  diadem, 


Star-like,  beneath  whose  sombre  shade, 
The  fiery-winged  cucullo  played  ! 
Yes,  —  lovely  was  thine  aspect,  then, 

Fair  island  of  the  Western  Sea  ! 
Lavish  of  beauty,  even  when 
Thy  brutes  were  happier  than  thy  men, 

For  they,  at  least,  were  free  ! 
Regardless  of  thy  glorious  clime, 

Unmindful  of  thy  soil  of  flowers, 
The  toiling  negro  sighed,  that  Time 

No  faster  sped  his  hours. 
For,  by  the  dewy  moonlight  still, 
He  fed  the  weary-turning  mill, 
Or  bent  him  in  the  chill  morass, 
To  pluck  the  long  and  tangled  grass, 
And  hear  above  his  scar-worn  back 
The  heavy  slave-whip's  frequent  crack  : 
While  in  his  heart  one  evil  thought 
In  solitary  madness  wrought, 
One  baleful  fire  surviving  still 

The  quenching  of  the  immortal  mind, 

One  sterner  passion  of  his  kind, 
Which  even  fetters  could  not  kill,  — 
The  savage  hope,  to  deal,  erelong, 
A  vengeance  bitterer  than  his  wrong  1 

Hark  to  that  cry !  —  long,  loud,  and  shrill, 
From  field  and  forest,  rock  and  hill, 


42 


VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


Thrilling  and  horrible  it  rang, 
Around,  beneath,  above  ;  — 
The  wild  beast  from  his  cavern  sprang, 

The  wild  bird  from  her  grove  ! 
Nor  fear,  nor  joy,  nor  agony 
Were  mingled  in  that  midnight  cry  ; 
But  like  the  lion's  growl  of  wrath, 
When  falls  that  hunter  in  his  path 
Whose  barbed  arrow,  deeply  set, 
Is  rankling  in  his  bosom  yet, 
It  told  of  hate,  full,  deep,  and  strong, 
Of  vengeance  kindling  out  of  wrong  ; 
It  was  as  if  the  crimes  of  years  — 
The  unrequited  toil,  the  tears, 
The  shame  and  hate,  which  liken  well 
Earth's  garden  to  the  nether  hell  — 
Had  found  in  nature's  self  a  tongue, 
On  which  the  gathered  horror  hung  ; 
As  if  from  cliff,  and  stream,  and  glen 
Burst  on  the  startled  ears  of  men 
That  voice  which  rises  unto  God, 
Solemn  and  stern,  —  the  cry  of  blood  ! 
It  ceased,  —  and  all  was  still  once  more, 
Save  ocean  charing  on  his  shore, 
The  sighing  of  the  wind  between 
The  broad  banana's  leaves  of  green, 
Or  bough  by  restless  plumage  shook, 
Or  murmuring  voice  of  mountain  brook. 

Brief  was  the  silence.     Once  again 

Pealed  to  the  skies  that  frantic  yell, 
Glowed  on  the  heavens  a  fiery  stain, 

And  flashes  rose  and  fell  ; 
And  painted  on  the  blood-red  sky, 
Dark,  naked  arms  were  tossed  on  high  ; 
And,  round  the  white  man's  lordly  hall, 

Trod,  fierce  and  free,  tliebrutc  he  made; 
And  those  who  crept  along  the  wall, 
And  answered  to  his  lightest  call 

With  more  than  spaniel  dread,  — 
The  creatures  of  his  lawless  beck,  — 
Were  trampling  on  his  very  neck  ! 
And  on  the  night-air,  wild  and  clear, 
Rose  woman's  shriek  of  more  than  fear  ; 
For  bloodied  arms  were  round  her  thrown, 
And  dark  cheeks  pressed  against  her  own  ! 

Then,  injured  Afric  !  —  for  the  shame 
Of  thy  own  daughters,  vengeance  came 
Full  on  the  scornful  hearts  of  those, 
Who  mocked  thee  in  thy  nameless  woes. 
And  to  thy  hapless  children  gave 
One  choice,  —  pollution  or  the  grave  ! 
Where  then  was  he  whose  fiery  zeal 
Had  taught  the  trampled  heart  to  feel, 
Until  despair  itself  grew  strong, 
And  vengeance  fed  its  torch  from  wrong  ? 


Now,  when  the  thunderbolt  is  speeding  ; 

Now,  when  oppression's  heart  is  bleed 
ing  ; 

Now,  when  the  latent  curse  of  Time 
Is  raining  down  in  fire  and  blood,  — 

That  curse  which,  through  long  years  of 
crime, 

Has  gathered,  drop  by  drop,  its  flood,  — 

Why  strikes  he  not,  the  foremost  one, 

Where  murder's  sternest  deeds  are  done  ? 

He  stood  the  aged  palms  beneath, 

That  shadowed  o'er  his  humble  door, 
Listening,  with  half-suspended  breath, 
To  the  wild  sounds  of  fear  and  death, 

Toussaint  1'Ouverture  ! 
What  marvel  that  his  heart  beat  high  ! 

The  blow  for  freedom  had  been  given, 
And  blood  had  answered  to  the  cry 

Which  Earth  sent  up  to  Heaven  ! 
What  marvel  that  a  fierce  delight 
Smiled  grimly  o'er  his  brow  of  night,  — 
As  groan  and  shout  and  bursting  flame 
Told  where  the  midnight  tempest  came, 
WTith  blood  and  fire  along  its  van, 
And  death  behind  !  —  he  was  a  Man  ! 

Yes,  dark-souled  chieftain  ! — if  the  light 

Of  mild  Religion's  heavenly  ray 
Unveiled  not  to  thy  mental  sight 

The  lowlier  and  the  purer  way, 
In  which  the  Holy  Sufferer  trod, 

Meekly  amidst  the  sons  of  crime,  — 
That  calm  reliance  upon  God 

For  justice  in  his  own  good  time,  — 
That  gentleness  to  which  belongs 
Forgiveness  for  its  many  wrongs, 
Even  as  the  primal  martyr,  kneeling 
For  mercy  on  the  evil-dealing,  — 
Let  not  the  favored  white  man  name 
Thy  stern  appeal,  with  words  of  blame. 
Has  he  not,  with  the  light  of  heaven 

Broadly  around  him,  made  the  same  ? 
Yea,  on  his  thousand  war-fields  striven, 

And  gloried  in  his  ghastly  shame  ?  — 
Kneeling  amidst  his  brother's  blood, 
To  offer  mockery  unto  God, 
As  if  the  High  and  Holy  One 
Could  smile  on  deeds  of  murder  done  !  — 
As  if  a  human  sacrifice 
Were  purer  in  his  Holy  eyes, 
Though  offered  up  by  Christian  hands, 
Than  the  foul  rites  of  Pagan  lands  ! 


Sternly,  amidst  his  household  band, 
His  carbine  grasped  within  his  hand. 


THE    SLAVE-SHIPS. 


43 


The  white  man  stood,  prepared  and  still, 
Waiting  the  shock  of  maddened  men, 
Unchained,  and  fierce  as  tigers,  when 

The  horn  winds  through  their  caverned 

hill. 
And  one  was  weeping  in  his  sight,  — 

The  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  isle,  — 
The  bride  who  seemed  but  yesternight 

Love's  fair  embodied  smile. 
And,  clinging  to  her  trembling  knee, 
Looked  up  the  form  of  infancy, 
With  tearful  glance  in  either  face 
The  secret  of  its  fear  to  trace. 

"  Ha  !  stand  or  die  !  "    The  white  man's 

eye 

His  steady  musket  gleamed  along, 
As  a  tall  Negro  hastened  nigh, 

With  fearless  step  and  strong. 
"What,   ho,  Toussaint!"     A  moment 

more, 

His  shadow  crossed  the  lighted  floor. 
"Away!"  he  shouted;  "fly  with  me, — 
The  white  man's  bark  is  on  the  sea  ;  — 
Her  sails  must  catch  the  seaward  wind, 
For  sudden  vengeance  sweeps  behind. 
Our  brethren   from    their  graves   have 

spoken, 
The  yoke  is   spurned,  —  the    chain   is 

broken  ; 

On  all  the  hills  our  fires  are  glowing,  — 
Through  all  the  vales  red  blood  is  flowing! 
No  more  the  mocking  White  shall  rest 
His  foot  upon  the  Negro's  breast  ; 
No  more,  at  rnorn  or  eve,  shall  drip 
The  warm  blood  from  the  driver's  whip: 
Yet,  though  Toussaint  has  vengeance 

sworn 

For  all  the  wrongs  his  race  have  borne,  — 
Though  for  each  drop  of  Negro  blood 
The  white  man's  veins  shall  pour  a  flood  ; 
Not  all  alone  the  sense  of  ill 
Around  his  heart  is  lingering  still, 
Nor  deeper  can  the  white  man  feel 
The  generous  warmth  of  grateful  zeal. 
Friends  of  the  Negro  !  fly  with  me,  — 
The  path  is  open  to  the  sea  : 
Away,  for  life  ! "  —  He  spoke,  and  pressed 
The  young  child  to  his  manly  breast, 
As,  headlong,  through  the  cracking  cane, 
Down  swept  the  dark  insurgent  train,  — 
Drunken  and  grim,  with  shout  and  yell 
Howled  through  the  dark,  like  sounds 

from  hell. 

Far  out,  in  peace,  the  white  man's  sail 
Swayed  free  before  the  sunrise  gale. 


Cloud-like  that  island  hung  afar, 

Along  the  bright  horizon's  verge, 
O'er  which  the  curse  of  servile  war 

Rolled  its  red  torrent,  surge  on  surge  ; 
And  he  —  the  Negro  champion  —  where 

In  the  fierce  tumult  struggled  he  ? 
Go  trace  him  by  the  fiery  glare 
Of  dwellings  in  the  midnight  air,  — 
The  yells  of  triumph  and  despair,  — 

The  streams  that  crimson  to  the  sea  ! 

Sleep  calmly  in  thy  dungeon-tomb, 

Beneath  Besai^on's  alien  sky, 
Dark  Haytien  !  —  for  the  time  shall  come, 

Yea,  even  now  is  nigh,  — 
When,  everywhere,  thy  name  shall  be 
Redeemed  from  color  s  infamy  ; 
And  men  shall  learn  to  speak  of  thee, 
As  one  of  earth's  great  spirits,  born 
In  servitude,  and  nursed  in  scorn, 
Casting  aside  the  weary  weight 
And  fetters  of  its  low  estate, 
In  that  strong  majesty  of  soul 

Which  knows  no   color,   tongue,    or 

clime,  — 
Which  still  hath  spurned  the  base  control 

Of  tyrants  through  all  time  ! 
Far  other  hands  than  mine  may  wreathe 
The  laurel  round  thy  brow  of  death, 
And  speak  thy  praise,  as  one  whose  word 
A  thousand  fiery  spirits  stirred,  — 
Who  crushed  his  foeman  as  a  worm,  — 
Whose  stepon  human  hearts  fell  firm  :  —  w 
Be  mine  the  better  task  to  find 
A  tribute  for  thy  lofty  mind, 
Amidst  whose  gloomy  vengeance  shone 
Some  milder  virtues  all  thine  own,  — 
Some  gleams  of  feeling  pure  and  warm, 
Like  sunshine  on  a  sky  of  storm,  — 
Proofs  that  the  Negro's  heart  retains 
Some  nobleness  amidst  its  chains,  — 
That  kindness  to  the  wronged  is  never 

Without  its  excellent  reward,  — 
Holy  to  human-kind  and  ever 

Acceptable  to  God. 


THE  SLAVE-SHIPS.3* 

"  That  fatal,  that  perfidious  bark, 
Built  i'  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark. 
Milton's  Lycidas- 

"  ALL  ready  ?  "  cried  the  captain  ; 

"  Ay,  ay  !  "  the  seamen  said  ; 
"  Heave  up  the  worthless  lubbers,  — 

The  dying  and  the  dead." 
Up  from  the  slave-ship's  prison 

Fierce,  bearded  heads  were  thrust  : 


44 


VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


"  Now  let  the  sharks  look  to  it,  — 
Toss  up  the  dead  ones  first  !  " 

Corpse  after  corpse  came  up,  — 

Death  had  been  busy  there  ; 
Where  every  blow  is  mercy, 

Why  should  the  spoiler  spare  ? 
Corpse  after  corpse  they  cast 

Sullenly  from  the  ship, 
Yet  bloody  with  the  traces 

Of  fetter-link  and  whip. 

Gloomily  stood  the  captain, 

With  his  arms  upon  his  breast, 
With  his  cold  brow  sternly  knotted, 

And  his  iron  lip  compressed. 
"Are  all  the  dead  dogs  over  ?" 

Growled  through  that  matted  lip,  - 
"  The  blind  ones  are  no  better, 

Let 's  lighten  the  good  ship." 

Hark  !  from  the  ship's  dark  bosom, 

The  very  sounds  of  hell  ! 
The  ringing  clank  of  iron,  — 

The  maniac's  short,  sharp  yell !  — 
The  hoarse,  low  curse,  throat-stifled, 

The  starving  infant's  moan,  — 
The  horror  of  a  breaking  heart 

Poured  through  a  mother's  groan. 

Up  from  that  loathsome  prison 

The  stricken  blind  ones  came  : 
Below,  had  all  been  darkness,  — 

Above,  was  still  the  same. 
Yet  the  holy  breath  of  heaven 

Was  sweetly  breathing  there, 
And  the  heated  brow  of  fever 

Cooled  in  the  soft  sea  air. 

"  Overboard  with  them,  shipmates  ! ' 

Cutlass  and  dirk  were  plied  ; 
Fettered  and  blind,  one  after  one, 

Plunged  down  the  vessel's  side. 
The  sabre  smote  above,  — 

Beneath,  the  lean  shark  lay, 
Waiting  with  wide  and  bloody  jaw 

His  quick  and  human  prey. 

God  of  the  earth  !  what  cries 

Rang  upward  unto  thee  ? 
Voices  of  agony  and  blood, 

From  ship-deck  and  from  sea. 
The  last  dull  plunge  was  heard,  — 

The  last  wave  caught  its  stain,  — 
And  the  unsated  shark  looked  up 

For  human  hearts  in  vain. 


Red  glowed  the  western  waters,  — 

The  setting  sun  was  there, 
Scattering  alike  on  wave  and  cloud 

His  fiery  mesh  of  hair. 
Amidst  a  group  in  blindness, 

A  solitary  eye 
Gazed,  from  the  burdened  slaver's  decfc, 

Into  that  burning  sky. 

"  A  storm,"  spoke  out  the  gazer, 

"  Is  gathering  and  at  hand,  — 
Curse  on 't  —  1  'd  give  my  other  eye 

For  one  firm  rood  of  land." 
And  then  he  laughed,  —  but  only 

His  echoed  laugh  replied,  — 
For  the  blinded  and  the  suffering 

Alone  were  at  his  side. 

Night  settled  on  the  waters, 

And  on  a  stormy  heaven, 
While  fiercely  on  that  lone  ship's  track 

The  thunder-gust  was  driven. 
"  A  sail  !  —  thank  God,  a  sail !  " 

And  as  the  helmsman  spoke, 
Up  through  the  stormy  murmur 

A  shout  of  gladness  broke. 

Down  came  the  stranger  vessel, 

Unheeding  on  her  way, 
So  near  that  on  the  slaver's  deck 

Fell  off  her  driven  spray. 
' '  Ho  !  for  the  love  of  mercy,  — 

We  're  perishing  and  blind  !  " 
A  wail  of  utter  agony 

Came  back  upon  the  wind  : 

"  Help  us  !  for  we  are  stricken 

With  blindness  every  one  ; 
Ten  days  we  've  floated  fearfully, 

Unnoting  star  or  sun. 
Our  ship  's  the  slaver  Leon,  — 

We  've  but  a  score  on  board,  — 
Our  slaves  are  all  gone  over,  — 

Help,  —  for  the  love  of  God  !  " 

On  livid  brows  of  agony 

The  broad  red  lightning  shone,  — 
But  the  roar  of  wind  and  thunder 

Stifled  the  answering  groan ; 
Wailed  from  the  broken  waters 

A  last  despairing  cry, 
As,  kindling  in  the  stormy  light, 

The  stranger  ship  went  by. 


In  the  sunny  Guadaloupe 
A  dark-hulled  vessel  lay,  — 


STANZAS. 


45 


With  a  crew  who  noted  never 

The  nightfall  or  the  day. 
The  blossom  of  the  orange 

Was  white  by  every  stream, 
And  tropic  leaf,  and  flower,  and  bird 

Were  in  the  warm  sunbeam. 

And  the  sky  was  bright  as  ever, 

And  the  moonlight  slept  as  well, 
On  the  palm-trees  by  the  hillside, 

And  the  streamlet  of  the  dell : 
And  the  glances  of  the  Creole 

Were  still  as  archly  deep, 
And  her  smiles  as  full  as  ever 

Of  passion  and  of  sleep. 

But  vain  were  bird  and  blossom, 

The  green  earth  and  the  sky, 
And  the  smile  of  human  faces, 

To  the  slaver's  darkened  eye  ; 
At  the  breaking  of  the  morning, 

At  the  star-lit  evening  time, 
O'er  a  world  of  light  and  beauty 

Fell  the  blackness  of  his  crime. 


STANZAS. 

["  The  despotism  which  our  fathers  could  not 
bear  in  their  native  country  is  expiring,  and  the 
sword  of  justice  in  her  reformed  hands  has  ap 
plied  its  exterminating  edge  to  slavery.  Shall 
the  United  States  —  the  free  United  States, 
which  could  not  bear  the  bonds  of  a  king  — 
cradle  the  bondage  which  a  king  is  abolishing  ? 
Shall  a  Republic  be  less  free  than  a  Monarchy  ? 
Shall  we,  in  the  vigor  and  buoyancy  of  our 
manhood,  be  less  energetic  in  righteousness  than 
a  kingdom  in  its  age  ?  "  —  Dr.  Fallen's  Address. 

"  Genius  of  America  !  —  Spirit  of  our  free  in 
stitutions  !  —  where  art  thou  ?  —  How  art  thou 
fallen,  0  Lucifer  !  son  of  the  morning,  — how 
art  thou  fallen  from  Heaven  !  Hell  from  beneath 
is  moved  for  thee,  to  meet  thee  at  thy  coming! 
—  The  kings  of  the  earth  cry  out  to  thee,  Aha ! 

Aha! — ART    THOU     BECOME    LIKE     UNTO    US?"  — 

Speech,  of  Samuel  J.  May.] 

OITR  fellow-countrymen  in  chains  ! 

Slaves  —  in  a  land  of  light  and  law  ! 
Slaves  —  crouching  on  the  very  plains 

Where  rolled  the  storm  of  Freedom's 

war  ! 
A  groan  from  Eutaw's  haunted  wood,  — 

A  wail  where  Camden's  martyrs  fell,  — 
By  every  shrine  of  patriot  blood, 

From  Moultrie's  wall  and  Jaspar'swell! 

By  storied  hill  and  hallowed  grot, 
By  mossy  wood  and  marshy  glen, 

Whence  rang  of  old  the  rifle-shot, 

And  hurrying  shout  of  Marion's  men  !  ( 


The  groan  of  breaking  hearts  is  there.  — 
The  falling  lash,  —  the  fetter's  clank  ! 

Slaves,  —  SLAVES  are  breathing  in  that 

air, 
Which  old  De  Kalb  and  Sumter  drank  \ 

What,  ho  !  — our  countrymen  in  chains  ! 
The  whip  on  WOMAN'S  shrinking  flesh  ! 
Our  soil  yet  reddening  with  the  stains 
Caught  from  her  scourging,  warm  and 

fresh  ! 
What  !    mothers    from    their    children 

riven  ! 
What  !  God's  own  image  bought  and 

sold  ! 
AMERICANS  to  market  driven, 

And  bartered  as  the  brute  for  gold  ! 

Speak  !  shall  their  agony  of  prayer 

Come  thrilling  to  our  hearts  in  vain  ? 
To  us  whose  fathers  scorned  to  bear 

The  paltry  menace  of  a  chain  ; 
To  us,  whose  boast  is  loud  and  long 

Of  holy  Liberty  and  Light,  — 
Say,  shall  these  writhing  slaves  of  Wrong 

Plead  vainly  for  their  plundered  Right  ? 

Avhat  !  shall  we  send,  with  lavish  breath,  \ 

Our  sympathies  across  the  wave, 
Where  Manhood,  on  the  field  of  death, 

Strikes  for  his  freedom  or  a  grave  ? 
Shall  prayers  go  up,  and  hyrnns  be  sung 

For  Greece,  the  Moslem  fetter  sp  titling, 
And  millions  hail  with  pen  and  tongue 

Our  light  on  all  her  altars  burning  ? 

Shall  Belgium  feel,  and  gallant  France, 

By  Vendome's  pile  and  Schoenbrun's 

wall, 
And  Poland,  gasping  on  her  lance, 

The  impulse  of  our  cheering  call  ? 
And  shall  the  SLAVE,  beneath  our  eye,   ^ 

Clank  o'er  our  fields  his  hateful  chain  ^V 
And  toss  his  fettered  arms  on  high, 

And  groan  for  Freedom's  gift,  in  vain?! 

0,  say,  shall  Prussia's  banner  be 

A  refuge  for  the  stricken  slave  ? 
And  shall  the  Russian  serf  go  free 

By  Baikal's  lake  arid  Neva's  wave  ? 
And  shall  the  wintry-bosomed  Dane 

Relax  the  iron  hand  of  pride, 
And  bid  his  bondmen  cast  the  chain, 

From  fettered  soul  and  limb,  aside  ? 

Shall  every  flap  of  England's  flag 
Proclaim  that  all  around  are  free, 


46 


VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


From      farthest  Ind  "  to  each  blue  crag 
Th»»  "beetles  o'er  the  Western  Sea  ? 

And  eliall  we  scoff'  at  Europe's  kings, 
When  Freedom's  fire  is  dim  with  us, 

And  round  our  country's  altar  clings 
The  damning  shade  of  Slavery's  curse  ? 

Go  —  let  us  ask  of  Constantine 

To  loose  his  grasp  on  Poland's  throat ; 
And  beg  the  lord  of  Mahmoud's  line 

To  spare  the  struggling  Suliote,  — 
Will  not  the  scorching  answer  come 

From    curbaned   Turk,   and   scornful 

Kuss  : 
"  Go,  loose  your  fettered  slaves  at  home, 

Then  turn,  and  ask  the  like  of  us  !  " 

Just  God  !  and  shall  we  calmly  rest, 

The  Christian's  scorn,  —  the  heathen's 

mirth,  — 
Content  to  live  the  lingering  jest 

And  by-word  of  a  mocking  Earth  ? 
Shall  our  own  glorious  land  retain 

That  curse  which  Europe  scorns  to  bear  ? 
Shall  our  own  brethren  drag  the  chain 

Which  not  even  Russia's  menials  wear  ? 

Up,  then,  in  Freedom's  manly  part, 

From  graybeard  eld  to  fiery  youth, 
And  on  the  nation's  naked  heart 

Scatter  the  living  coals  of  Truth  ! 
Up,  —  while  ye  slumber,  deeper  yet 

The  shadow  of  our  fame  is  growing  ! 
Up,  —  while  ye  pause,  our  sun  may  set 

In  blood,  around  our  altars  flowing  ! 

\  Oh  !    rouse    ye,    ere  the   storm  comes 

forth,  — 

The  gathered  wrath  of  God  and  man,  — 
Like  that  which  wasted  Egypt's  earth, 

When  hail  and  fire  above  it  ran. 
Hear  ye  no  warnings  in  the  air  ? 

Feel  ye  no  earthquake  underneath  ? 
Up,  —  up  !  why  will  ye  slumber  where 
The  sleeper  only  wakes  in  death  ? 

Up  now  for  Freedom  !  —  not  in  strife 

Like  that  your  sterner  fathers  saw,  — 
The  awful  waste  of  human  life,  — 

The  glory  and  the  guilt  of  war  : 
But  break  the  chain,  —  the  yoke  remove, 

And  smite  to  earth  Oppression's  rod, 
With  those  mild  arms  of  Truth  and  Love, 

Made  mighty  through  the  living  God  ! 

Down  let  the  shrine  of  Moloch  sink, 
And  leave  no  traces  where  it  stood  ; 


Nor  longer  let  its  idol  drink 
His  daily  cup  of  human  blood  ; 

But  rear  another  altar  there, 

To  Truth  and  Love  and  Mercy  given, 

And  Freedom's  gift,  and  Freedom's  prayer, 
Shall    call    an     answer    down     from 
Heaven ! 


THE  YANKEE  GIRL. 

SHE  sings  by  her  wheel  at  that  low  cot 

tage-door, 
Which    the    long    evening    shadow    is 

stretching  before, 
With   a  music  as  sweet  as   the   music 

which  seems 
Breathed  softly  and  faint  in  the  ear  of 

our  dreams  ! 

How  brilliant  and  mirthful  the  light  of 

her  eye, 
Like  a  star  glancing  out  from  the  blue 


of  the  sky  ! 
lightly  and  f 


And  lightly  and  freely  her  dark  tresses 

play 
O'er  a  brow  and  a  bosom  as  lovely  as  they ! 

Who  comes  in  his  pride  to  that  low  cot 
tage-door,  — 

The  haughty  and  rich  to  the  humble  and 
poor  ? 

'T  is  the  great  Southern  planter,  —  the 
master  who  waves 

His  whip  of  dominion  o'er  hundreds  of 
slaves. 

"  Nay,  Ellen,  —  for  shame  !     Let  those 

Yankee  fools  spin, 
Who  would  pass  for  our  slaves  with  a 

change  of  their  skin  ; 
Let  them  toil  as  they  will  at  the  loom 

or  the  wheel, 
Too  stupid  for  shame,  and  too  vulgar  to 

feel! 

"  But  thou  art  too  lovely  and  precious  a 
gem 

To  be  bound  to  their  burdens  and  sul 
lied  by  them,  — 

For  shame,  Ellen,  shame,  —  cast  thy 
bondage  aside, 

And  away  to  the  South,  as  my  blessing 
and  pride. 

"  O,  come  where  no  winter  thy  footsteps 
can  wrong, 


SONG  OF   THE  FREE. 


47 


But  where  flowers  are  blossoming  all  the 

year  long, 
Where   the  shade  of  the  palm-tree  is 

over  my  home, 
And  the  lemon  and  orange  are  white  in 

their  bloom  ! 

"  0,  come  to  my  home,  where  my  ser 
vants  shall  all 

Depart  at  thy  bidding  and  come  at  thy 
call; 

They  shall  heed  thee  as  mistress  with 
trembling  and  awe, 

And  each  wish  of  thy  heart  shall  be  felt 
as  a  law." 

0,  could  ye  have  seen  her  —  that  pride 

of  our  girl's  — 
Arise  and  cast  back  the  dark  wealth  of 

her  curls, 
With  a  scorn  in  her  eye  which  the  gazer 

could  feel, 
And  a  glance  like  the  sunshine  that 

flashes  on  steel  ! 

"  Go    back,    haughty    Southron  !    thy 

treasures  of  gold 
Are  dim  with  the  blood  of  the  hearts  thou 

hast  sold  ; 
Thy  home  may  be  lovely,  but  round  it 

I  hear 
The  crack  of  the  whip  and  the  footsteps 

of  fear  ! 

"And  the  sky  of  thy  South  may  be 
brighter  than  ours, 

And  greener  thy  landscapes,  and  fairer 
thy  flowers  ; 

But  dearer  the  blast  round  our  moun 
tains  which  raves, 

Than  the  sweet  summer  zephyr  which 
breathes  over  slaves  ! 

' '  Full  low  at  thy  bidding  thy  negroes 

may  kneel, 
With  the  iron  of  bondage  on  spirit  and 

heel; 
Yet  know  that  the  Yankee  girl  sooner 

would  be 
In  fetters  with  them,  than  in  freedom 

with  thee  ! " 

TO  W.    L.    G. 

CHAMPION  of  those  who  groan  beneath 

Oppression's  iron  hand  : 
In  view  of  penury,  hate,  and  death, 

I  see  thee  fearless  stand. 


Still  bearing  up  thy  lofty  brow, 
In  the  steadfast  strength  of  truth, 

In  manhood  sealing  well  the  vow 
And  promise  of  thy  youth. 

Go  on,  —  for  thou  hast  chosen  well ; 

On  in  the  strength  of  God  ! 
Long  as  one  human  heart  shall  swell 

Beneath  the  tyrant's  rod. 
Speak  in  a  slumbering  nation's  ear, 

As  thou  hast  ever  spoken, 
Until  the  dead  in  sin  shall  hear,  — 

The  fetter's  link  be  broken  ! 

I  love  thee  with  a  brother's  love, 

I  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 
To  mark  thy  spirit  soar  above 

The  cloud  of  human  ill. 
My  heart  hath  leaped  to  answer  thine, 

And  echo  back  thy  words, 
As  leaps  the  warrior's  at  the  shine 

And  flash  of  kindred  swords  ! 

They  tell  me  thou  art  rash  and  vain,  — 

A  searcher  after  fame  ;  » 

That  thou  art  striving  but  to  gain 

A  long- enduring  name  ; 
That  thou  hast  nerved  the  Afric's  hand 

And  steeled  the  Afric's  heart, 
To  shake  aloft  his  vengeful  brand, 

And  rend  his  chain  apart. 

Have  I  not  known  thee  well,  and  read 

Thy  mighty  purpose  long  ? 
And  watched  the  trials  which  have  madft 

Thy  human  spirit  strong  ? 
And  shall  the  slanderer's  demon  breath 

Avail  with  one  like  me, 
To  dim  the  sunshine  of  my  faith 

And  earnest  trust  in  thee  ? 

Go  on,  —  the  dagger's  point  may  glare 

Amid  thy  pathway's  gloom,  — 
The  fate  which  sternly  threatens  there 

Is  glorious  martyrdom  ! 
Then  onward  with  a  martyr's  zeal  ; 

And  wait  thy  sure  reward 
AVhen.  man  to  man  no  more  shall  kneel. 

And  God  alone  be  Lord  ! 
1833. 

SONG  OF   THE  FKEE. 

PRIDE  of  New  England  ! 

Soul  of  our  fathers  ! 
Shrink  we  all  craven-like, 

When  the  storm  gathers  ? 


48 


VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


"What  though  the  tempest  be 

Over  us  lowering, 
"Where  's  the  New-Englander 

Shamefully  cowering  ? 
Graves  green  and  holy 

Around  us  are  lying,  — 
Free  were  the  sleepers  all, 

Living  and  dying  ! 

Back  with  the  Southerner's 

Padlocks  and  scourges  ! 
Go,  —  let  him  fetter  down 

Ocean's  free  surges  ! 
Go,  —  let  him  silence 

Winds,  clouds,  and  waters,  — 
Never  New  England's  own 

Free  sons  and  daughters  ! 
Free  as  our  rivers  are 

Ocean-ward  going,  — 
Free  as  the  breezes  are 

Over  us  blowing. 

Up  to  our  altars,  then, 

Haste  we,  and  summon 
Courage  and  loveliness, 

Manhood  and  woman  ! 
Deep  let  our  pledges  be  : 

Freedom  forever  ! 
Truce  with  oppression, 

Never,  0,  never  ! 
By  our  own  birthright-gift, 

Granted  of  Heaven,  — 
Freedom  for  heart  and  lip, 

Be  the  pledge  given  ! 

If  we  have  whispered  truth, 

Whisper  no  longer  ; 
Speak  as  the  tempest  does, 

Sterner  and  stronger ; 
Still  be  the  tones  of  truth 

Louder  and  firmer, 
Startling  the  haughty  South 

With  the  deep  murmur  ; 
God  and  our  charter's  right, 

Freedom  forever  ! 
V  Truce  with  oppression, 

Never,  0,  never  ! 
1886. 

THE  HUNTERS  OF  MEN. 

HAVE  ye  heard  of  our  hunting,  o'er 

mountain  and  glen, 
Through  cane-brake  and  forest,  —  the 

hunting  of  men  ? 
The  lords  of  our  land  to  this  hunting 

have  gone, 


As  the  fox -hunter  follows  the  sound  of 

the  horn  ; 
Hark  !  —  the  cheer  and  the  hallo  !  —  the 

crack  of  the  whip, 
And  the  yell  of  the  hound  as  he  fastens 

his  grip  ! 
All  blithe  are  our  hunters,   and  noble 

their  match,  — 
Though  hundreds  are  caught,  there  are 

millions  to  catch. 
So  speed  to  their  hunting,  o'er  mountain 

and  glen, 
Through  cane-brake   and   forest,  —  the 

hunting  of  men  ! 

Gay  luck  to  our  hunters  !  —  how  nobly 

they  ride 
In  the  glow  of  their  zeal,  and  the  strength 

of  their  pride  !  — 
The  priest  with  his  cassock  flung  back 

on  the  wind, 

Just  screening  the  politic  statesman  be 
hind,  — 
The  saint  and  the  sinner,  with  cursing 

and  prayer, 
The  drunk  and  the  sober,  ride  merrily 

there. 
And    woman,  —  kind    woman,  —  wife, 

widow,  and  maid, 
For  the  good  of  the  hunted,  is  lending 

her  aid  : 
Her  foot 's  in  the  stirrup,  her  hand  on 

the  rein, 
How  blithely  she  rides  to  the  hunting  of 

men  ! 

0,  goodly  and  grAnd  is  our  hunting  to 

see, 
In   this  "land  of  the   brave  and  this 

home  of  the  free." 
Priest,    warrior,    and    statesman,    from 

Georgia  to  Maine, 
All  mounting  the  saddle,  —  all  grasping 

the  rein,  — 
Right  merrily  hunting  the  black  man, 

whose  sin 
Is  the  curl  of  his  hair  and  the  hue  of 

his  skin  ! 
Woe,  now,  to  the  hunted  who  turns  him 

at  bay  ! 
Will  our  hunters  be  turned  from  their 

purpose  and  prey  ? 
Will  their  hearts  fail  within  them  ?  — 

their  nerves  tremble,  when 
All  roughly  they  ride  to  the  hunting  of 

men  ? 


CLERICAL   OPPRESSORS. 


49 


Ho  !  •—  ALMS  for  our  "hunters  !  all  weary 

and  faint, 
Wax  the  curse,  of  the  sinner  and  prayer 

of  the  saint. 
The  horn  is  wound  faintly,  —  the  echoes 

are  still, 
Over  cane-brake  and  river,  and  forest 

and  hill. 
Haste,  —  alms    for    our    hunters  !    the 

hunted  once  more 
Have  turned  from  their  flight  with  their 

backs  to  the  shore  : 
What  right  have  tJicy  here  in  the  home 

of  the  white, 

Shadowed  o'er  by  our  banner  of  Free 
dom  and  Eight  ? 
Ho  !  —  alms  for  the  hunters  !  or  never 

again 
Will   they  ride   in   theiv   pomp  to   the 

hunting  of  men  ! 

ALMS,  —  ALMS  for  our  hunters  !   why 

will  ye  delay, 
When   their  pride  and  their  glory  are 

melting  away  ? 
The  parson  has  turned  ;  for,  on  charge 

of  his  own, 

Who  goeth  a  warfare,  or  hunting,  alone  ? 
The  politic  statesman  looks  back  with  a 

sigh,  — 
There  is  doubt  in  his  heart,  —  there  is 

fear  in  his  eye. 
0,   haste,  lest  that  doubting  and  fear 

shall  prevail, 
A  nd  the  head  of  his  steed  take  the  place 

of  the  tail. 
0,  haste,  ere  he  leave  us  !  for  who  will 

ride  then, 
For  pleasure  or  gain,  to  the  hunting  of 

men  ? 
1835. 


CLERICAL   OPPRESSORS. 

fin  the  report  of  the  celebrated  proslavery 
meeting  in  Charlestown,  S.  C-,  on  the  4th  of 
the  9th  month,  1835,  published  in  the  Courier 
of  that  city,  it  is  stated  :  "  The  CLERGY  of  all 
denominations  attended  in  a  body,  LENDING  THEIR 
SANCTION  TO  THE  PROCEEDINGS,  and  adding  by 
their  presence  to  the  impressive  character  of  the 
scene !  "] 

JUST  God  !  —  and  these  are  they 
Who  minister  at  thine  altar,  God  of  Right ! 
Men  who  their  hands  with  prayer  and 
blessing  lay 

On  Israel's  Ark  of  light  ! 


What  !  preach  and  kidnap  men  ? 
Give   thanks,  —  and  rob  thy  own  af 
flicted  poor  ? 
Talk  of  thy  glorious  liberty,  and  then 

Bolt  hard  the  captive's  door  ? 

What  !  servants  of  thy  own 
Merciful   Son,  who  came  to  seek  and 

save 

The  homeless  and  the  outcast,  —  fetter 
ing  down 
The  tasked  and  plundered  slave  ! 

Pilate  and  Herod,  friends  ! 
Chief  priests  and  rulers,  as  of  old,  com 
bine  ! 
Just   God  and  holy  !   is  that   church, 

which  lends 
Strength  to  the  spoiler,  thine  ? 

Paid  hypocrites,  who  turn 
Judgment  aside,  and  rob  the  Holy  Book 
Of   those   high   words   of  truth   which 
search  and  burn 

In  warning  and  rebuke  ; 

Feed  fat,  ye  locusts,  feed  ! 
And,   in  your  tasselled  pulpits,  thank 

the  Lord 
That,  from  the  toiling  bondman's  utter 

need, 
Ye  pile  your  own  full  board. 

How  long,  0  Lord  !  how  long 
Shall  such  a  priesthood  barter  truth  away, 
And  in  thy  name,  for  robbery  and  wrong 

At  thy  own  altars  pray  ? 

Is  not  thy  hand  stretched  forth 
Visibly  in  the  heavens,  to  awe  and  smite  ? 
Shall   not   the  living  God   of    all  the 
earth, 

And  heaven  above,  do  right  ? 

Woe,  then,  to  all  who  grind 
Their    brethren   of    a  common   Father 

down  ! 
To  all  who  plunder  from  the  immortal 

mind 
Its  bright  and  glorious  crown  ! 

Woe  to  the  priesthood  !  woe 
To  those  whose  hire  is  with  the  price  of 

blood,  — 
Perverting,  darkening,  changing,  as  they 

go, 
The  searching  truths  of  God  1 


50 


VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


Their  glory  and  their  might 
Shall  perish  ;    and    their    very  names 

shall  be 
Vile  before  all  the  people,  in  the  light 

Of  a  world's  liberty. 

0,  speed  the  moment  on 
When  Wrong  shall  cease,  and  Liberty 

and  Love 
And  Truth  and  Right  throughout  the 

earth  be  known 
As  in  their  home  above. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  SLAVE. 

[In  a  late  publication  of  L.  F.  Tasistro  — 
"  Random  Shots  and  Southern  Breezes  "  —  is  a 
description  of  a  slave  auction  at  New  Orleans,  at 
•which  the  auctioneer  recommended  the  woman 
on  the  stand  as  "  A  GOOD  CHRISTIAN  !  "  ] 

A  CHRISTIAN  !  going,  gone  ! 
Who  bids  for  God's  own  image  ?  —  for 

his  grace, 

Which  that  poor  victim  of  the  market 
place 
Hath  in  her  suffering  won  ? 

My  God  !  can  such  things  be  ? 
Hast  thou  not  said  that  whatsoe'er  is  done 
Unto  thy  weakest  and  thy  humblest  one 

Is  even  done  to  thee  ? 

In  that  sad  victim,  then, 
Child  of  thy  pitying  love,  I  see  thee 

stand,  — 
Once  more  the  jest-word  of  a  mocking 

band, 
Bound,  sold,  and  scourged  again  ! 

A  Christian  up  for  sale  ! 
Wet  with  her  blood  your  whips,  o'er- 

task  her  frame, 
Make  her  life  loathsome  with  your  wrong 

and  shame, 
™>  patience  shall  not  fail ! 

A  he&then  hand  might  deal 
Back  on  your  heads  the  gathered  wrong 

of  years  : 
But  her  low,  broken  prayer  and  nightly 

tears, 
Ye  neither  heed  nor  feel. 

Con  well  thy  lesson  o'er, 
Thou  prudent  teacher,  —  tell  the  toiling 
slave 


No  dangerous  tale  of  Him  who  came  to 

save 
The  outcast  and  the  poor. 

But  wisely  shut  the  ray 
Of  God's  free  Gospel  from  her  simple  heart, 
And  to  her  darkened  mind  alone  impart 

One  stern  command,  —  OBEY  ! 

So  shalt  thou  deftly  raise 
The  market  price  of  human  flesh ;  and 

while 
On    thee,    their    pampered    guest,    the 

planters  smile, 
Thy  church  shall  praise. 

Grave,  reverend  men  shall  tell 
From  Northern  pulpits  how  thy  work 

was  blest, 
While  in  that  vile  South  Sodom  first 

and  best, 
Thy  poor  disciples  sell. 

O,  shame  !  the  Moslem  thrall, 
Who,  with  his  master,  to  the  Prophet 

kneels, 
While  turning  to  the  sacred  Kebla  feels 

His  fetters  break  and  fall. 

Cheers  for  the  turbaned  Bey 
Of  robber-peopled  Tunis  !  he  hath  torn 
The  dark  slave-dungeons  open,  and  hath 
borne 

Their  inmates  into  day  : 

But  our  poor  slave  in  vain 
Turns  to  the  Christian  shrine  his  aching 

eyes,  — 
Its  rites  will  only  swell  his  market  price, 

And  rivet  on  his  chain. 


God  of  all  right  !  how  long 
Shall  priestly  robbers  at  thine  altar  stand,, 
Lifting  in  prayer  to  thee,  the  bloody  hand 

And  haughty  brow  of  wrong  ? 

0,  from  the  fields  of  cane, 
From    the    low  rice -swamp,    from    the 

trader's  cell,  — 
From  the  black  slave-ship's  foul  and 

loathsome  hell, 
And  coffle's  weary  chain,  — 

Hoarse,  horrible,  and  strong, 
Rises  to  Heaven  that  agonizing  cry, 
Filling  the  arches  of  the  hollow  sky, 

HOW  LONG,  0  GOD,  HOW  LONG  ? 


s 


STANZAS  FOR  THE   TIMES. 


51 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES. 

Is  this  the  land  our  fathers  loved, 

The  freedom  which  they  toiled  to  win  ? 

Is  this  the  soil  whereon  they  moved  ? 
Are  these  the  graves  they  slumber  in  ? 

Are  we  the  sons  by  whom  are  borne 

The  mantles  which  the  dead  have  worn  ? 

And  shall  we  crouch  above  these  graves, 
With  craven  soul  and  fettered  lip  ? 

Yoke  in  with  marked  and  branded  slaves, 
And  tremble  at  the  driver's  whip  ? 

Bend  to  the  earth  our  pliant  knees, 

And  speak  —  but  as  our  masters  please  ? 

Shall  outraged  Nature  cease  to  feel  ? 

Shall  Mercy's  tears  no  longer  flow  ? 
Shall  ruffian  threats  of  cord  and  steel,  — 

The    dungeon's   gloom,  —  the    assas 
sin's  blow, 

Turn  back  the  spirit  roused  to  save 
The  Truth,  our  Country,  and  the  Slave  ? 

'Of  human  skulls  that  shrine  was  made, 

Round  which  the  priests  of  Mexico 
Before  their  loathsome  idol  prayed  ;  — 

Is  Freedom's  altar  fashioned  so  ? 
And  must  we  yield  to  Freedom's  God, 
As  offering  meet,  the  negro's  blood  ? 

Shall  tongues  be  mute,  when  deeds  are 

wrought 
"Which  well  might  shame  extremest 

hell? 
Shall  freemen  lock  the  indignan  t  thought  ? 

Shall  Pity's  bosom  cease  to  swell  ? 
Shall  Honor  bleed  ?  —  shall  Truth  suc 
cumb  ? 
Shall  pen,  and  press,  and  soul  be  dumb  ? 

No  ;  —  by  each  spot  of  haunted  ground, 
Where  Freedom  weeps  her  children's 

fall,  - 
By    Plymouth's     rock,    and    Bunker's 

mound,  — 
By  Gris wold's  stained  and  shattered 

wall,  - 
By    Warren's    ghost,  —  by    Langdon's 

shade,  — 
By  all  the  memories  of  our  dead  ! 

By  their  enlarging  souls,  which  burst 
The  bands  and  fetters  round  them 
set,  — 

By  the  free  Pilgrim  spirit  nursed 
Within  our  inmost  bosoms,  yet,  — 


By  all  above,  around,  below, 

Be  ours  the  indignant  answer,  —  NO  ! 

No  ;  —  guided  by  our  country's  laws, 
For  truth,  and  right,  and  suffering  man, 

Be  ours  to  strive  in  Freedom's  cause, 
As  Christians  may,  —  as  freemen  can  ) 

Still  pouring  on  unwilling  ears 

That  truth  oppression  only  fears. 

What  !  shall  we  guard  our  neighbor  still, 
While  woman  shrieks  beneath  his  rod, 

And  while  he  tramples  down  at  will 
The  image  of  a  common  God  ! 

Shall  watch  and  ward  be  round  him  set, 

Of  Northern  nerve  and  bayonet  ? 

And  shall  we  know  and  share  with  him 
The  danger  and  the  growing  shame  ? 

And  see  our  Freedom's  light  grow  dim. 
Which  should   have  filled  the  world 
with  flame  ? 

And,  writhing,  feel,  where'er  we  turn, 

A  world's  reproach  around  us  burn  ? 

Is  't  not  enough  that  this  is  borne  ? 

And  asks  our  haughty  neighbor  more  ? 
Must  fetters  which  his  slaves  have  worn 

Clank  round  the  Yankee  farmer's  door? 
Must  he  be  told,  beside  his  plough, 
What  he  must   speak,  and  when,  and 
how  ? 

Must  he  be  told  his  freedom  stands 
On      Slavery's      dark      foundations 
strong,  — 

On  breaking  hearts  and  fettered  hands, 
On  robbery,  and  crime,  and  wrong  ? 

That  all  his  fathers  taught  is  vain,  — 

That  Freedom's  emblem  is  the  chain  ? 

Its  life,  its  soul,  from  slavery  drawn  ? 

False,  foul,  profane  !    Go,  —  teach  a 

well 
Of  holy  Truth  from  Falsehood  born  ! 

Of  Heaven  refreshed  by  airs  from  Hell  J 
Of  Virtue  in  the  arms  of  Vice  ! 
Of  Demons  planting  Paradise  ! 

Rail     on,     then,     "  brethren     of    the 

South, "- 

Ye  shall  not  hear  the  truth  the  less ;— ' 
No  seal  is  on  the  Yankee's  mouth, 
No  fetter  on  the  Yankee's  press  ! 
From  our  Green  Mountains  to  the  sea, 
One  -voice    shall    thunder,  —  WE  ARB 
FUEE  ! 


VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  BEADING  THE  MESSAGE 
OF  GOVERNOR  RITNER,  OF  PENN 
SYLVANIA,  1836. 

THANK  God  for  the  token  !  —  one  lip  is 

still  free,  — 
One  spirit  untrammelled,  —  unbending 

one  knee  ! 

Like   the   oak  of  the  mountain,    deep- 
rooted  and  firm, 
Erect,  when  the  multitude  bends  to  the 

storm  ; 
When  traitors  to  Freedom,  and  Honor, 

and  God, 
Are   bowed   at  an   Idol  polluted  with 

blood  ; 
When  the  recreant  North  has  forgotten 

her  trust, 
And  the  lip  of  her  honor  is  low  in  the 

dust,  — 
Thank    God,    that   one   arm   from   the 

shackle  has  broken  ! 
Thank  God,  that  one  man  as  a  freeman 

has  spoken  ! 

O'er  thy  crags,  Alleghany,  a  blast  has 
been  blown  ! 

Down  thy  tide,  Susquehanna,  the  mur 
mur  has  gone  ! 

To  the  land  of  the  South,  —  of  the  char 
ter  and  chain,  — 

Of  Liberty  sweetened  with.  Slavery's 
pain  ; 

Where  the  cant  of  Democracy  dwells  on 
the  lips 

Of  the  forgers  of  fetters,  and  wielders  of 
whips  ! 

Where  ' '  chivalric  "  honor  means  really 
no  more 

Than  scourging  of  women,  and  robbing 
the  poor  ! 

Where  the  Moloch  of  Slavery  sitteth  on 
high, 

And  the  words  which  he  utters,  are  — 
WORSHIP,  OR  DIE  ! 

Right  onward,  0  speed  it  !  Wherever 
the  blood 

Of  the  wronged  and  the  guiltless  is  cry 
ing  to  God  ; 

Wherever  a  slave  in  his  fetters  is  pining  ; 

Wherever  the  lash  of  the  driver  is  twin 
ing  ; 

Wherever  from  kindred,  torn  rudely 
apart, 


Comes  the  sorrowful  wail  of  the  broken 

of  heart  ; 

Wherever  the  shackles  of  tyranny  bind, 
In  silence  and  darkness,  the  God-given 

mind  ; 
There,  God  speed  it  onward  !  —  its  truth 

will  be  felt,  — 
The  bonds  shall  be  loosened,  — the  iron 

shall  melt  ! 

And  0,  will  the  land  where  the  free  soul 
of  PENN 

Still  lingers  and  breathes  over  mountain 
and  glen,  — 

Will  the  land  where  a  BENEZET'S  spirit 
went  forth 

To  the  peeled  and  the  meted,  and  outcast 
of  Earth,  — 

Where  the  words  of  the  Charter  of  Lib 
erty  first 

From  the  soul  of  the  sage  and  the  pa 
triot  burst,  — 

Where  first  for  the  wronged  and  the  weak 
of  their  kind, 

The  Christian  and  statesman  their  efforts 
combined,  — 

Will  that  land  of  the  free  and  the  good 
wear  a  chain  ? 

Will  the  call  to  the  rescue  of  Freedom 
be  vain  ? 

No,  RITNER  !  —  her  "Friends"  at  thy 

warning  shall  stand 
Erect  for  the  truth,  like  their  ancestral 

band  ; 
Forgetting  the  feuds  and  the  strife  of 

past  time, 
Counting  coldness  injustice,  and  silence 

a  crime  ; 
Turning  back  from  the  cavil  of  creeds, 

to  unite 
Once  again  for  the  poor  in  defence  of  the 

Right  ; 
Breasting   calmly,  but   firmly,  the  full 

tide  of  Wrong, 
Overwhelmed,  but  not  borne  on  its  surges 

along  ; 
Unappalled  by  the   danger,  the  shame, 

and  the  pain, 
And  cc  an  ting  each  trial  for  Truth  as 

their  gain  ! 

And  that  bold-hearted  yeomanry,  hon 
est  and  true, 

Who,  haters  of  fraud,  give  to  labor  its  due  ; 

Whose  fathers,  of  old,  sang  in  concert 
with  thine, 


THE   PASTORAL   LETTER. 


53 


Un  the  banks  of  Swetara,  the  songs  of 

the  Rhine,  — 
The   German-born   pilgrims,    who    first 

dared  to  brave 
The  scorn  of  the  proud  in  the  cause  of 

the  slave  :  — 
Will  the  sons   of  such  men  yield  the 

lords  of  the  South 

One  brow  for  the  brand,  —  for  the  pad 
lock  one  mouth  ? 
They  cater  to  tyrants  ?  —  They  rivet  the 

chain, 
Which  their  fathers  smote  off,  on  the 

negro  again  ? 

No,  never  !  —  one  voice,  like  the  sound 

in  the  cloud, 
When  the  roar  of  the  storm  waxes  loud 

and  more  loud, 
Wherever  the  foot  of  the  freeman  hath 

pressed 
From  the  Delaware's  marge  to  the  Lake 

of  the  West, 
On  the  South-going  breezes  shall  deepen 

and  grow 
Till  the  land  it  sweeps  over  shall  tremble 

below  ! 
The   voice   of  a  PEOPLE,  —  uprisen,  — 

awake,  — 

Pennsylvania's   watchword,    with  Free 
dom  at  stake, 
Thrilling    up  from  each  valley,    flung 

down  from  each  height, 
"  OUR  COUNTRY  AND  LIBERTY  !  —  GOD 

FOR  THE  RIGHT  !  " 


THE  PASTORAL   LETTER. 

So,  this  is  all,  —  the  utmost  reach 

Of  priestly  power  the  mind  to  fetter  ! 
When    laymen    think  —  when    women 

preach  — 

A  war  of  words  —  a   "Pastoral   Let 
ter  ! " 

Now,  shame  upon  ye,  parish  Popes  ! 
Was  it  thus  with  those,  your  prede 
cessors, 
Who  sealed  with  racks,   and  fire,   and 

ropes 
Their  loving-kindness  to  transgressors  ? 

A  "  Pastoral  Letter,"  grave  and  dull  — 
Alas  !  in  hoof  and  horns  and  features, 

How  different  is  your  BrookfieJd  bull, 
From  him  who  bellows  from  St.  Pe 
ter's  1 


Your  pastoral  rights  and  powers  from 

harm, 
Think  ye,  can  words  alone  preserve 

them  ? 

Your  wiser  fathers  taught  the  arm 
And  sword  of  temporal  power  to  seive 
them. 

0,  glorious   days,  —  when   Church  and 
State 

Were  wedded  by  your  spiritual  fathers  ! 
And  on  submissive  shoulders  sat 

Your  Wilsons  and  your  Cotton  Ma 
thers. 
No  vile  "  itinerant "  then  could  mar 

The  beauty  of  your  tranquil  Zion, 
But  at  his  peril  of  the  scar 

Of  hangman's  whip  and  branding-iron. 

Then,  wholesome  laws  relieved  the  Church 

Of  heretic  and  mischief-maker, 
And  priest  and  bailiff  joined  in  search, 

By  turns,  of  Papist,  witch,  and  Qua 
ker  ! 
The  stocks  were  at  each  church's  door, 

The  gallows  stood  on  Boston  Common, 
A  Papist's  ears  the  pillory  bore,  — 

The  gallows-rope,  a  Quaker  woman  1 

Your  fathers  dealt  not  as  ye  deal 

With  "  non-professing  "  frantic  teach 
ers  ; 

They  bored  the  tongue  with  red-hot  steel, 
And    flayed    the  backs  of    "female 

preachers." 

Old  Newbury,  had  her  fields  a  tongue, 
And  Salem's   streets  could  tell  their 

story, 
Of  fainting  woman  dragged  along, 

Gashed  by  the  whip,   accursed  and 
gory! 

And  will  ye  ask  me,  why  this  taunt 

Of  memories  sacred  from  the  scorner  J 
And  why  with  reckless  hand  I  plant 

A  nettle  on  the  graves  ye  honor  ? 
Not  to  reproach  New  England's  dead 

This  record  from  the  past  I  summon, 
Of  manhood  to  the  scaffold  led, 

And  suffering  and  heroic  woman. 

No,  —  for  yourselves  alone,  I  turn 
The  pages  of  intolerance  over, 

That,  in  their  spirit,  dark  and  stern, 
Ye  haply  may  your  own  discover  ! 

)r,  if  ye  claim  the  "  pastoral  right," 
n^n  «^i^-,~~  T? j »_ • ~c • 


For 


'A,     AJ.     J  ^    I/ICUIU     LI  1C  LJaol/UlCtl    111' lit, 

To  silence  Freedom's  voice  of  warning, 


54 


VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


And  from  your  precincts  shut  the  light 
Of  Freedom's  day  around  ye  dawn 
ing  ; 

If  when  an  earthquake  voice  of  power, 

And  signs  in   earth   and  heaven,  are 

showing 
That  forth,  in  its  appointed  hour, 

The  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is  going  ! 
And,  with  that  Spirit,  Freedom's  light 

On  kindred,  tongue,  and  people  break 
ing, 
Whose  slumbering  millions,  at  the  sight, 

In  glory  and  in  strength  are  waking  ! 

When  for  the  sighing  of  the  poor, 

And  for  the  needy,  God  hath  risen, 
And  chains  are  breaking,  and  a  door 

Is  opening  for  the  souls  in  prison  ! 
If  then  ye  would,  with  puny  hands, 

Arrest  the  very  work  of  Heaven, 
And  bind  anew  the  evil  bands 

Which  God's  right  arm  of  power  hath 
riven,  — 

What  marvel  that,  in  many  a  mind, 

Those  darker  deeds  of  bigot  madness 
Are  closely  with  your  own  combined, 

Yet  "  less  in  anger  than  in  sadness  "  ? 
What  marvel,  if  the  people  learn 

To  claim  the  right  of  free  opinion  ? 
What  marvel,  if  at  times  they  spurn 

The  ancient  yoke  of  your  dominion  ? 

A  glorious  remnant  linger  yet, 

Whose  lips  are  wret  at  Freedom's  foun 
tains, 
The  coming  of  whose  welcome  feet 

Is  beautiful  upon  our  mountains  ! 
Men,  who  the  gospel  tidings  bring 

Of  Liberty  and  Love  forever, 
Whose  joy  is  an  abiding  spring, 

Whose  peace  is  as  a  gentle  river  \ 

But  ye,  who  scorn  the  thrilling  tale 

Of  Carolina's  high-souled  daughters, 
Which  echoes  here  the  mournful  wail 

Of  sorrow  from  Edisto's  waters, 
Close  while  ye  may  the  public  ear,  — 

With  malice  vex,  with  slander  wound 

them,  — 
The  pure  and  good  shall  throng  to  hear, 

And  tried  and  manly  hearts  surround 
them. 

0,  ever  may  the  power  which  led 
Their  way  to  such  a  fiery  trial, 


And  strengthened  womanhood  to  tread 
The  wine-press  of  such  self-denial, 

Be  round  them  in  an  evil  land, 

With  wisdom  and  with  strength  from 
Heaven, 

With  Miriam's  voice,  and  Judith's  hand, 
And  Deborah's  song,  for  triumph  given  ! 

And  what  are  ye  who  strive  with  God 

Against  the  ark  of  his  salvation, 
Moved  by  the  breath  of  prayer  abroad, 

With  blessings  for  a  dying  nation  ? 
What,  but  the  stubble  and  the  hay 

To  perish,  even  as  flax  consuming, 
With  all  that  bars  his  glorious  way, 

Before  the  brightness  of  his  coming  ? 

And  thou,  sad  Angel,  who  so  long 

Hast  waited  for  the  glorious  token, 
That  Earth  from  all  her  bonds  of  wrong 

To  liberty  and  light  has  broken,  — 
Angel  of  Freedom  !  soon  to  thee 

The  sounding  trumpet  shall  be  given, 
And  over  Earth's  full  jubilee 

Shall  deeper  joy  be  felt  in  Heaven  ! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  FOE,  THE  MEETING  OF  THE 
ANTISLAVERY  SOCIETY,  AT  CHAT 
HAM  STREET  CHAPEL,  N.  Y.,  HELD 
ON  THE  4TH  OF  THE  7TH  MONTH, 
1834. 

0  THOTJ,  whose  presence  went  before 
Our  fathers  in  their  weary  way, 

As  with  thy  chosen  moved  of  yore 
The  fire  by  night,  the  cloud  by  day  ! 

When  from  each  temple  of  the  free, 
A  nation's  song  ascends  to  Heaven, 

Most  Holy  Father  !  unto  thee 

May  not  our  humble  prayer  be  given  ? 

Thy  children  all,  — though  hue  and  form 
Are  varied  in  thine  own  good  will,  — 

With  thy  own  holy  breathings  warm, 
And  fashioned  in  thine  image  still. 

We  thank  thee,  Father  !  —  hill  and  plain 
Around  us  wave  their  fruits  once  more, 

And  clustered  vine,  and  blossomed  grain, 
Are  bending  round  each  cottage  door. 

And  peace  is  here  ;  and  hope  and  love 
Are  round  us  as  a  mantle  thrown. 


LINES. 


55 


And  unto  Thee,  supreme  above, 
The  knee  of  prayer  is  bowed  alone. 

But  0,  for  those  this  day  can  bring, 
As  unto  us,  no  joyful  thrill,  — 

For  those  who,  under  Freedom's  wing, 
Are  bound  in  Slavery's  fetters  still  : 

For  those  to  whom  thy  living  word 
Of  light  and  love  is  never  given,  — 

For  those  whose  ears  have  never  heard 
The  promise  and  the  hope  of  Heaven  ! 

For  broken  heart,  and  clouded  mind, 
Whereon  no  human  mercies  fall,  — 

0,  be  thy  gracious  love  inclined, 
Who,  as  a  Father,  pitiest  all  ! 

And  grant,  0  Father  !  that  the  time 
Of  Earth's  deliverance  may  be  near, 

When  every  land  and  tongue  and  clime 
The  message  of  thy  love  shall  hear,  — 

When,  smitten  as  with  fire  from  heaven, 
The  captive's  chain  shall  sink  in  dust, 

And  to  his  fettered  soul  be  given 
The  glorious  freedom  of  the  just  ! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  CELEBRATION  OF 
THE  THIRD  ANNIVERSARY  OF  BRIT 
ISH  EMANCIPATION  AT  THE  BROAD 
WAY  TABERNACLE,  N.  Y.,  "FIRST  OF 
AUGUST,"  1837. 

0  HOLY  FATHER  !  —  just  and  true 

Are  all  thy  works  and  words  and  ways, 
And  unto  thee  alone  are  due 

Thanksgiving  and  eternal  praise  ! 
£.s  children  of  thy  gracious  care, 

We  veil  the  eye,  we  bend  the  knee, 
With  broken  words  of  praise  and  prayer, 

Father  and  God,  we  come  to  thee. 

For  thou  hast  heard,  0  God  of  Right, 

The  sighing  of  the  island  slave  ; 
And  stretched  for  him  the  arm  of  might, 

Not  shortened  that  it  could  not  save. 
The  laborer  sits  beneath  his  vine, 

The  shackled  soul  and  hand  are  free,  — 
Thanksgiving  !.  —  for  the  work  is  thine  ! 

Praise  !  —  for  the  blessing  is  of  thee  ! 

And  O,  we  feel  thy  presence  here,  — 
Thy  awful  arm  in  judgment  bare  ! 


Thine  eye  hath  seen  the  bondman's  tear, — 
Thine  ear  hath  heard  the  bondman's 
prayer. 

Praise  !  —  for  the  pride  of  man  is  low, 
The  counsels  of  the  wise  are  naught, 

The  fountains  of  repentance  flow  ; 
What  hath  our  God  in  mercy  wrought  ? 

Speed  on  thy  work,  Lord  God  of  Hosts  ! 

And  when   the  bondman's   chain  is 

riven, 
And  swells  from  all  our  guilty  coasts 

The  anthem  of  the  free  to  Heaven, 
0,  not  to  those  whom  thou  hast  led, 

As  with  thy  cloud  and  fire  before, 
But  unto  thee,  in  fear  and  dread, 

Be  praise  and  glory  evermore. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  ANNIVERSARY  CEL 
EBRATION  OF  THE  FIRST  OF  AUGUST, 
AT  MILTON,  1846. 

A  FEW  brief  years  have  passed  away 

Since  Britain  drove  her  million  slaves 
Beneath  the  tropic's  fiery  ray  : 
God  Avilled  their  freedom  ;  and  to-day 
Life  blooms  above  those  island  graves  ! 

He  spoke  !  across  the  Carib  Sea, 

We  heard  the  clash  of  breaking  chains, 
And  felt  the  heart-throb  of  the  free, 
The  first,  strong  pulse  of  liberty 

Which  thrilled  along  the  bondman's 


Though  long  delayed,  and  far,  and  slow, 

The  Briton's  triumph  shall  be  ours  : 
Wears  slavery  here  a  prouder  brow 
Than  that  which  twelve  short  years  ago 
Scowled  darkly  from  her  island  bow 
ers  ? 

Mighty  alike  for  good  or  ill 

With  mother-land,  we  fully  share 

The    Saxon    strength, — the   nerve   of 
steel,  — 

The  tireless  energy  of  will,  — 

The  power  to  do,  the  pride  to  dare. 

What  she  has  done  can  we  not  do  ? 

Our  hour  and  men  are  both  at  hand  ; 
The  blast  which  Freedom's  angel  blew 
O'er  her  green  islands,  echoes  through 

Each  valley  of  our  forest  land. 


56 


VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


Hear  it,  old  Europe  !  we  have  sworn 

The  death  of  slavery.  —  When  it  falls, 
Look  to  your  vassals  in  their  turn, 
Your  poor  dumb  millions,   crushed  and 

worn, 
Your  prisons  and  your  palace  walls  ! 

0  kingly  mockers  !  —  scoffing  show 

What  deeds  in  Freedom's  name  we  do  ; 
Yet  know  that  every  taunt  ye  throw 
Across  the  waters,  goads  our  slow 

Progression    towards    the  right  and 
true. 

Not  always  shall  your  outraged  poor, 

Appalled  by  democratic  crime, 
Grind  as  their  fathers  ground  before,  — 
The  hour  which  sees  our  prison  door 
Swing  wide  shall  be  their  triumph  time. 

On  then,  my  brothers  !  every  blow 

Ye  deal  is  felt  the  wide  earth  through  ; 
Whatever  here  uplifts  the  low 
Or  humbles  Freedom's  hateful  foe, 
Blesses  the   Old   World  through  the 
New. 

Take  heart !     The  promised  hour  draws 

near,  — 

I  hear  the  downward  beat  of  wings, 
And  Freedom's  trumpet  sounding  clear  : 
"  Joy  to  the  people  !  —  woe  and  fear 
To     new-world     tyrants,     old-world 
kings  !  " 


THE  FAREWELL 

OF  A  VIRGINIA  SLAVE  MOTHER  TO  II Ell 
DAUGHTERS  SOLD  INTO  SOUTHERN 
BONDAGE. 

GONE,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Where  the  slave -whip  ceaseless  swings, 
Where  the  noisome  insect  stings, 
Where  the  fever  demon  strews 
Poison  with  the  falling  dews, 
Where  the  sickly  sunbeams  glare 
Through  the  hot  and  misty  air,  — 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 


There  no  mother's  eye  is  near  them, 
There  no  mother's  ear  can  hear  them  ; 
Never,  when  the  torturing  lash 
Seams  their  back  with  many  a  gash, 
Shall  a  mother's  kindness  bless  them. 
Or  a  mother's  arms  caress  them. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
0,  when  weary,  sad,  and  slow, 
From  the  fields  at  night  they  go, 
Faint  with  toil,  and  racked  with  pain, 
To  their  cheerless  homes  again, 
There    no    brother's   voice    shall  greet 

them,  — 

There  no  father's  welcome  meet  them. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — • 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
From  the  tree  whose  shadow  lay 
On  their  childhood's  place  of  play,  — 
From  the  cool  spring  where  they  drank, — 
Rock,  and  hill,  and  rivulet  bank,  — 
From  the  solemn  house  of  prayer, 
And  the  holy  counsels  there,  — 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

.     Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, — 
Toiling  through  the  weary  day, 
And  at  night  the  spoiler's  prey. 
0  that  they  had  earlier  died, 
Sleeping  calmly,  side  by  side, 
Where  the  tyrant's  power  is  o'er, 
And  the  fetter  galls  no  more  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
By  the  holy  love  He  beareth,  — 
By  the  bruised  reed  He  sparetb  — • 
0,  may  He,  to  whom  alone 
All  their  cruel  wrongs  are  known, 


THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION. 


57 


Still  their  hope  and  refuge  prove, 
With  a  more  than  mother's  love. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 


THE  MORAL  WARFARE. 

WHEN  Freedom,  on  her  natal  day, 
Within  her  war-rocked  cradle  lay, 
An  iron  race  around  her  stood, 
Baptized  her  infant  brow  in  blood  ; 
And,  through  the  storm  which  round  her 

swept, 
Their  constant  ward  and  watching  kept. 

Then,  where  our  quiet  herds  repose, 
The  roar  of  baleful  battle  rose, 
And  brethren  of  a  common  tongue 
To  mortal  strife  as  tigers  sprung, 
And  every  gift  on  Freedom's  shrine 
Was  man  for  beast,  and  blood  for  wine  ! 

Our  fathers  to  their  graves  have  gone  ; 
Their  strife  is  past,  — -their  triumph  won  ; 
But  sterner  trials  wait  the  race 
Which  rises  in  their  honored  place,  — 
A  moral  warfare  with  the  crime 
And  folly  of  an  evil  time. 

So  let  it  be.     In  God's  own  might 
We  gird  us  for  the  coming  fight, 
And,  strong  in  Him  whose  cause  is  ours 
In  conflict  with  unholy  powers, 
We  grasp  the  weapons  He  has  given,  — 
The  Light,    and  Truth,    and   Love   of 
Heaven. 


THE  WORLD'S    CONVENTION 

OF     THE     FRIENDS     OF     EMANCIPATION, 
HELD    IN   LONDON   IN   1840. 

YES,  let  them  gather  !  —  Summon  forth 
The  pledged  philanthropy  of  Earth, 
From  every  land,  whose  hills  have  heard 

The  bugle  blast  of  Freedom  waking  ; 
Or  shrieking  of  her  symbol-bird 

From  out  his  cloudy  eyrie  breaking  : 
Where  Justice  hath  one  worshipper, 
Or  truth  one  altar  built  to  her  ; 
Where'er  a  human  eye  is  weeping 

O'er  wrongs  which  Earth's  sad  chil 
dren  know,  — 


Where'er  a  single  heart  is  keeping 

Its  prayerful  watch  with  human  woe  : 
Thence   let  them  come,  and  greet  each 

other, 
And  know  in  each  a  friend  and  brother  ! 

Yes,  let  them  come  !  from  each  green  vale 

Where  England's  old  baronial  halls 

Still  bear  upon  their  storied  walls 
The  grim  crusader's  rusted  mail, 
Battered  by  Paynim  spear  and  brand 
On  Malta's  rock  or  Syria's  sand  ! 
And  mouldering  pennon-staves  once  set 

Within  the  soil  of  Palestine, 
By  Jordan  and  Genesaret  ; 

Or,  borne  with  England's  battle  line, 
O'er  Acre's  shattered  turrets  stooping, 
Or,  midst  the  camp  their  banners  droop 
ing* 

With  dews  from  hallowed  Hermon  wet, 
A  holier  summons  now  is  given 

Than  that  gray  hermit's  voice  of  old, 
Which  unto  all  the  winds  of  heaven 

The  banners  of  the  Cross  unrolled  ! 
Not  for  the  long-deserted  shrine,  — 

Not  for  the  dull  unconscious  sod, 
Which  tells  not  by  one  lingering  sign 

That  there  the  hope  of  Israel  trod  ;  — 
But  for  that  TRUTH,  for  which  alone 

In  pilgrim  eyes  are  sanctified 
The  garden  moss,  the  mountain  stone, 
Whereon  his  holy  sandals  pressed,  — 
The    fountain     which     his     lip    hath 

blessed,  — 

Whate'er  hath  touched  his  garment's  hem 
At  Bethany  or  Bethlehem, 

Or  Jordan's  river-side. 
For  FREEDOM,  in  the  name  of  Him 

Who  came  to  raise  Earth's  drooping 

poor, 

To  break  the  chain  from  every  limb, 
The  bolt  from  every  prison  door  ! 
For  these,  o'er  all  the  earth  hath  passed 
An  ever-deepening  trumpet  blast, 
As  if  an  angel's  breath  had  lent 
Its  vigor  to  the  instrument. 

And  Wales,  from  Snowden's  mountain 

wall, 
Shall  startle  at  that  thrilling  call, 

As  if  she  heard  her  bards  again  ; 
And  Erin's  "  harp  on  Tara's  wall  " 

Give  out  its  ancient  strain, 
Mirthful  and  sweet,  yet  sad  withal,  — 

The  melody  which  Erin  loves, 
When  o'er  that  harp,  'mid  bursts  of  glad 
ness 


58 


VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


And  slogan  cries  and  lyke-wake  sadness, 

The  hand  of  her  O'Connell  moves  ! 
Scotland,  from  lake  and  tarn  and  rill, 
And  mountain  hold,  and  heathery  hill, 
Shall  catch  and  echo  back  the  note, 
As  if  she  "heard  upon  her  air 
Once  more  her  Cameronian's  prayer 

And  song  of  Freedom  float. 
And  cheering  echoes  shall  reply 
From  each  remote  dependency, 
Where  Britain's  mighty  sway  is  known, 
In  tropic  sea  or  frozen  zone  ; 
Where'er  her  sunset  flag  is  furling, 
Or  morning  gun-fire's  smoke  is  curling  ; 
From  Indian  Bengal's  groves  of  palm 
And  rosy  fields  and  gales  of  balm, 
Where  Eastern  pomp  and  power  are  rolled 
Through  regal  Ava's  gates  of  gold  ; 
And  from  the  lakes  and  ancient  woods 
And  dim  Canadian  solitudes, 
Whence,  sternly  from  her  rocky  throne, 
Queen  of  the  North,  Quebec  looks  down  ; 
And   from   those   bright   and  ransomed 

Isles 

Where  all  unwonted  Freedom  smiles, 
And  the  dark  laborer  still  retains 
The  scar  of  slavery's  broken  chains  ! 

From  the  hoar  Alps,  which  sentinel 
The  gateways  of  the  land  of  Tell, 
Where  morning's  keen  and  earliest  glance 

On  Jura's  rocky  wall  is  thrown, 
And  from  the  olive  bowers  of  France 
And     vine    groves     garlanding     the 

Rhone,  — 
"Friends  of  the  Blacks,"  as  true  and 

tried 

As  those  who  stood  by  Oge's  side, 
And  heard  the  Haytien's  tale  of  wrong, 
Shall  gather  at  that  summons  strong,  — 
Broglie,  Passy,  and  him  whose  song 
Breathed  over  Syria's  holy  sod, 
And  in  the  paths  which  Jesus  trod, 
And  murmured  midst  the  hills  which  hem 
Crownless  and  sad  Jerusalem, 
Hath  echoes  whereso'er  the  tone 
Of  Israel's  prophet-lyre  is  known. 

Still    let   them    come,  —  from    Quito's 
wralls, 

And  from  the  Orinoco's  tide, 
From  Lima's  Inca-haunted  halls, 
From  Santa  Fe  and  Yucatan,  — 

Men  who  by  swart  Guerrero's  side 
Proclaimed  the  deathless  RIGHTS  OF  MAN, 

Broke  every  bond  and  fetter  off, 

And  hailed  in  every  sable  serf 


A  free  and  brother  Mexican  ! 
Chiefs  who  across  the  Andes'  chain 

Have     followed     Freedom's     flowing 

pennon, 

And  seen  on  Junin's  fearful  plain, 
Glare  o'er  the  broken  ranks  of  Spain 

The  fire-burst  of  Bolivar's  cannon  ! 
And  Hayti,  from  her  mountain  land, 

Shall  send  the  sons  of  those  who  hurled 
Defiance  from  her  blazing  strand,  — 
The  w7ar-gage  from  her  Petion's  hand, 

Alone  against  a  hostile  world. 

For  all  unmindful,  thou,  the  while, 
Land  of  the  dark  and  mystic  Nile  !  — 

Thy  Moslem  mercy  yet  may  shame 

All  tyrants  of  a  Christian  name,  — 
When  in  the  shade  of  Gizeh's  pile, 
Or,  where  from  Abyssinian  hills 
El  Gerek's  upper  fountain  fills, 
Or  where  from  Mountains  of  the  Moon 
El  Abiad  bears  his  watery  boon, 
Where'er  thy  lotus  blossoms  swim 

Within    their   ancient  hallowed  wa 
ters,  — 
Where'er  is  heard  the  Coptic  hymn, 

Or  song  of  Nubia's  sable  daughters,  — . 
The  curse  of  SLAVERY  and  the  crime, 
Thy  bequest  from  remotest  time, 
At  thy  dark  Mehemet's  decree 
Forevermore  shall  pass  from  thee  ; 

And  chains  forsake  each  captive's  limb 
Of  all  those  tribes,  whose  hills  around 
Have  echoed  back  the  cymbal  sound 

And  victor  horn  of  Ibrahim. 

And  thou  \vhose  glory  and  whose  crime 
To  earth's  remotest  bound  and  clime, 
In  mingled  tones  of  awe  and  scorn, 
The  echoes  of  a  world  have  borne, 
My  country  !  glorious  at  thy  birth, 
A  day-star  flashing  brightly  forth,  — 

The  herald-sign  of  Freedom's  dawn  ! 
0,  who  could  dream  that  saw  thee  then, 

And  watched  thy  rising  from  afar, 
That  vapors  from  oppression's  fen 

Would  cloud  the  upward  tending  star  ? 
Or,  that   earth's  tyrant   powers,  which 

heard, 
Awe-struck,  the  shout  which  hailed 

thy  dawning, 
Would   rise  so  soon,    prince,   peer,  and 

king, 

To  mock  thee  with  their  welcoming, 
Like  Hades  when  her  thrones  were  stirred 
To  greet  the  down -cast  Star  of  Morn 
ing  ! 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 


59 


"  Aha  !  and  art  thou  fallen  thus  ? 
Art  THOU  become  as  one  of  us  ?  " 

Land  of  my  fathers  !  —  there  will  stand, 
Amidst  that  world-assembled  band, 
Those  owning  thy  maternal  claim 
Un weakened  by  thy  crime  and  shame,  — 
The  sad  reprovers  of  thy  wrong,  — 
The  children  thou  hast  spurned  so  long. 
Still  with  affection's  fondest  yearning 
To  their  unnatural  mother  turning. 
No  traitors  they  !  —  but  tried  and  leal, 
Whose  own  is  but  thy  general  weal, 
Still  blending  with  the  patriot's  zeal 
The  Christian's  love  for  human  kind, 
To  caste  and  climate  uncontined. 

A  holy  gathering  !  —  peaceful  all : 
No  threat  of  war,  —  no  savage  call 

For  vengeance  on  an  erring  brother  ! 
But  in  their  stead  the  godlike  plan 
To  teach  the  brotherhood  of  man 

To  love  and  reverence  one  another, 
As  sharers  of  a  common  blood, 
The  children  of  a  common  God  !  — 
Yet,  even  at  its  lightest  word, 
Shall  Slavery's  darkest  depths  be  stirred  : 
Spain,  watching  from  her  Moro's  keep 
Her  slave-ships  traversing  the  deep, 
And  Rio,  in  her  strength  and  pride, 
Lifting,  along  her  mountain-side, 
Her  snowy  battlements  and  towers,  — 
Her  lemon-groves  and  tropic  bowers, 
With  bitter  hate  and  sullen  fear 
Its  freedom -giving  voice  shall  hear  ; 
And  where  my  country's  flag  is  flow 
ing, 
On  breezes  from  Mount  Vernon  blowing 

Above  the  Nation's  council  halls, 
Where  Freedom's  praise  is  loud  and  long, 

While  close  beneath  the  outward  walls 
The  driver  plies  his  reeking  thong,  — 

The  hammer  of  the  man-thief  falls, 
O'er  hypocritic  cheek  and  brow 
The  crimson  flush  of  shame  shall  glow  : 
And  all  who  for  their  native  land 
Are  pledging  life  and  heart  and  hand,  — 
Worn  watchers  o'er  her  changing  weal, 
Who  for  her  tarnished  honor  feel,  — 
Through  cottage  door  and  council-hall 
Shall  thunder  an  awakening  call. 
The  pen  along  its  page  shall  burn 
With  all  intolerable  scorn,  — 
An  eloquent  rebuke  shall  go 
On  all  the  winds  that  Southward  blow,  — 
From  priestly  lips,  now  sealed  and  dumb, 
Warning  and  dread  appeal  shall  come, 


Like  those  which  Israel  heard  from  him, 

The  Prophet  of  the  Cherubim,  — 

Or  those  which  sad  Esaias  hurled 

Against  a  sin -accursed  world  ! 

Its  wizard  leaves  the  Press  shall  fling 

Unceasing  from  its  iron  wing, 

With  characters  inscribed  thereon, 

As  fearful  in  the  despot's  hall 
As  to  the  pomp  of  Babylon 

The  fire-sign  on  the  palace  wall  ! 
And,  from  her  dark  iniquities, 
Methinks  I  see  my  country  rise  : 
Not  challenging  the  nations  round 

To  note  her  tardy  justice  done,  — 
Her  captives  from  their  chains  unbound, 

Her  prisons  opening  to  the  sun  :  — 
But  tearfully  her  arms  extending 
Over  the  poor  and  unoffending  ; 

Her  regal  emblem  now  no  longer 
A  bird  of  prey,  with  talons  reeking, 
Above  the  dying  captive  shrieking, 
But,  spreading  out  her  ample  wing,  — 
A  broad,  impartial  covering,  — 

The  weaker  sheltered  by  the    stron 
ger  !  — 
0,  then  to  Faith's  anointed  eyes 

The  promised  token  shall  be  given  ; 
And  on  a  nation's  sacrifice, 
Atoning  for  the  sin  of  years, 
And  wet  with  penitential  tears,  — 

The  fire  shall  fall  from  Heaven  ! 
1889. 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 
1845. 

GOD  bless  New  Hampshire  !  —  from  her 

granite  peaks 
Once    more    the   voice    of    Stark    and 

Langdon  speaks. 
The  long-bound  vassal  of  the  exulting 

South 
For  very  shame  her  self-forged  chain 

has  broken,  —  , 

Torn  the  black  seal  of  slavery  from  her 

mouth,  ' 

And  in  the  clear  tones  of  her  old  time 

spoken  ! 
0,    all    undreamed-of,   all  unhoped-for 

changes  ! — 
The  tyrant's  ally  proves  his  sternest 

foe  ; 
To  all  his  biddings,  from  her  mountain 

ranges, 

New  Hampshire  thunders  an  indig 
nant  No  ! 


60 


VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


Who  is  it  now  despairs  ?  0,  faint  of  heart, 
Look  upward  to  those  Northern  moun 
tains  cold, 

Flouted  by  Freedom's  victor-flag  un 
rolled, 
And  gather  strength  to  bear  a  manlier 

part  ! 
All  is  not  lost.     The  angel  of    God's 

blessing 
Encamps  with  Freedom  on  the  field 

of  fight ; 
Still  to  her  banner,   day  by  day,   are 

pressing, 
Unlooked-for  allies,  striking  for  the 

right  ! 
Courage,   then,  Northern  hearts  !  —  Be 

firm,  be  true  : 

What  one  brave  State  hath  done,  can  ye 
not  also  do  ? 


THE  NEW  YEAE: 

ADDRESSED  TO  THE  PATRONS  OF  THE 
PENNSYLVANIA  FREEMAN. 

THE  wave  is  breaking  on  the  shore,  — 
The  echo  fading  from  the  chime,  — 

Again  the  shadow  moveth  o'er 
The  dial-plate  of  time  ! 

O,  seer-seen  Angel  !  waiting  now 
With  weary  feet  on  sea  and  shore, 

Impatient  for  the  last  dread  vow- 
That  time  shall  be  no  more  ! 

Once  more  across  thy  sleepless  eye 
The  semblance  of  a  smile  has  passed  : 

The  year  departing  leaves  more  nigh 
Time's  fearfullest  and  last. 

0,  in  that  dying  year  hath  been 
The  sum  of  all  since  time  began,  — 

The  birth  and  death,  the  joy  and  pain, 
Of  Nature  and  of  Man. 

Spring,   with  her  change   of    sun  and 

shower, 
And  streams  released  from  Winter's 

chain, 

And  bursting  bud,  and  opening  floAver, 
And  greenly  growing  grain  ; 

And  Summer's  shade,  and  sunshine  warm, 
And  rainbows  o'er  her  hill-tops  bowed, 

And  voices  in  her  rising  storm,  — 
God  speaking  from  his  cloud  !  — 


fruits    and    clustering 


I  And    Autumn's 

sheaves, 

And  soft,  warm  days  of  golden  light, 
The  glory  of  her  forest  leaves, 
And  harvest-moon  at  night ; 

And  Winter  with  her  leafless  grove, 
And    prisoned   stream,    and   drifting 
snow, 

The  brilliance  of  her  heaven  above 
And  of  her  earth  below  :  — 

And  man,  — in  whom  an  angel's  mind 
With     earth's     low    instincts     finds 
abode,  — 

The  highest  of  the  links  which  bind 
Brute  nature  to  her  God  ; 

His  infant  eye  hath  seen  the  light, 
His  childhood's  merriest  laughter  rung, 

And  active  sports  to  manlier  might 
The  nerves  of  boyhood  strung  ! 

And  cpiiiet  love,  and  passion's  fires, 
Have  soothed  or  burned  in  manhood's 
breast, 

And  lofty  aims  and  low  desires 
By  turns  disturbed  his  rest. 

The  wailing  of  the  newly-born 

Has  mingled  with  the  funeral  knell ; 

And  o'er  the  dying's  ear  has  gone 
The  merry  marriage-bell. 

And  Wealth  has  filled  his  halls  with 
mirth, 

While  Want,  in  many  a  humble  shed, 
Toiled,  shivering  by  her  cheerless  hearth, 

The  live-long  night  for  bread. 

And    worse    than    all,  —  the    human 

slave,  — 
The   sport   of   lust,    and  pride,    and 

scorn  ! 

Plucked  off  the  crown  his  Maker  gave,  — 
His  regal  manhood  gone  ! 

0,  still,  my  country  !  o'er  thy  plains, 
Blackened  with  slavery's  blight  and 
ban, 

That  human  chattel  drags  his  chains,  — 
An  uncreated  man  ! 

And  still,  where'er  to  sun  and  breeze, 
My  country,  is  thy  Hag  unrolled, 

With  scorn,  the  gazing  stranger  sees 
A  stain  on  every  fold. 


THE   NEW   YEAR. 


0,  tear  the  gorgeous  emblem  down  ! 

It  gathers  scorn  from  every  eye, 
And  despots  smile  and  good  men  frown 

Whene'er  it  passes  by. 

Shame  !    shame  !    its    starry  splendors 
glow 

Above  the  slaver's  loathsome  jail,  — 
Its  folds  are  ruffling  even  now 

His  crimson  flag  of  sale. 

Still  round  our  country's  proudest  hall 
The  trade  in  human  flesh  is  driven, 

And  at  each  careless  hammer-fall 
A  human  heart  is  riven. 

And  this,  too,  sanctioned  by  the  men 
Vested  with  power  to  shield  the  right, 

And  throw  each  vile  and  robber  den 
Wide  open  to  the  light. 

Yet,  shame  upon  them  !  —  there  they  sit, 
Men  of  the  North,  subdued  and  still ; 

Meek,  pliant  poltroons,  only  fit 
To  work  a  master's  will. 

Sold,  —  bargained     off    for     Southern 

votes,  — 

A  passive  herd  of  Northern  mules, 
Just  braying  through  their   purchased 

throats 
Whate'er  their  owrner  rules. 

And  he,35  —  the  basest  of  the  base, 
The  vilest  of  the  vile,  —  whose  name, 

Embalmed  in  infinite  disgrace, 
Is  deathless  in  its  shame  !  — 

A  tool,  —  to  bolt  the  people's  door 
Against  the  people  clamoring  there, 

An  ass,  —  to  trample  on  their  floor 
A  people's  right  of  prayer  ! 

Nailed  to  his  self-made  gibbet  fast, 
Self-pilloried  to  the  public  view,  — 

^.  mark  for  every  passing  blast 
Of  scorn  to  whistle  through  ; 

There  let  him  hang,  and  hear  the  boast 
Of  Southrons  o'er  their  pliant  tool,  — 

A  new  Stylites  on  his  post, 
"  Sacred  to  ridicule  !  " 

Look  we  at  home  !  —  our  noble  hall, 
To  Freedom's  holy  purpose  given, 

Now  rears  its  black  and  ruined  wall, 
Beneath  the  wintry  heaven,  — 


Telling  the  story  ^f  its  doom,  — 

The    fiendish    mob,  —  the    prostrate 
law,  — 

The  fiery  jet  through  midnight's  gloom, 
Our  gazing  thousands  saw. 

Look  to  our  State,  —  the  poor  man's  right 
Torn  from  him  :  —  and  the  sons  of 
those 

Whose  blood  in  Freedom's  sternest  fight 
Sprinkled  the  Jersey  snows, 

Outlawed  within  the  land  of  Penn, 
That  Slavery's  guilty  fears  might  cease, 

And  those  whom  God  created  men 
Toil  on  as  brutes  in  peace. 

Yet  o'er  the  blackness  of  the  storm 
A  bow  of  promise  bends  on  high, 

And  gleams  of  sunshine,  soft  and  warm. 
Break  through  our  clouded  sky. 

East,   West,   and  North,  the  shout  is 
heard, 

Of  freemen  rising  for  the  right  : 
Each  valley  hath  its  rallying  word,  — 

Each  hill  its  signal  light. 

O'er  Massachusetts'  rocks  of  gray, 
The   strengthening  light  of  freedom 
shines, 

Rhode  Island's  Narragansett  Bay,  — 
And  Vermont's  snow-hung  pines  ! 

From  Hudson's  frowning  palisades 
To  Alleghany's  laurelled  crest, 

O'erlakesand  prairies,  streams  andglades, 
It  shines  upon  the  West. 

Speed  on  the  light  to  those  who  dwell 
In  Slavery's  land  of  woe  and  sin, 

And  through  the  blackness  of  that  hell, 
Let  Heaven's  own  light  break  in. 

So  shall  the  Southern  conscience  quake 
Before    that    light  poured    full  and 
strong, 

So  shall  the  Southern  heart  awake 
To  all  the  bondman's  wrong. 

And  from  that  rich  and  sunny  land 
The  song  of  grateful  millions  rise, 

Like  that  of  Israel's  ransomed  band 
Beneath  Arabia's  skies  : 

And  all  who  now  are  bound  beneath 
Our  banner's  shade,  our  eagle's  wing, 


62 


VOICES    OF   FREEDOM. 


From  Slavery's  night  of  moral  death 
To  light  and  life  shall  spring. 

Broken  the  bondman's  chain,  and  gone 
The  master's  guilt,  and  hate,  and  fear, 

And  unto  both  alike  shall  dawn 
A  New  and  Happy  Year. 
1838. 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA. 

[Written  on  reading  an  account  of  the  pro 
ceedings  of  the  citizens  of  Norfolk,  Va.,  in  refer 
ence  to  GEORGE  LATIMER,  the  alleged  fugitive 
slave,  the  result  of  whose  case  in  Massachusetts 
will  probably  be  similar  to  that  of  the  negro 
SOMERSET  in  England,  in  1772.] 

THE  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern 
hills,  upon  its  Southern  way, 

Bears  greeting  to  Virginia  from  Massa 
chusetts  Bay  :  — 

No  word  of  haughty  challenging,  nor 
battle  bugle's  peal, 

Nor  steady  tread  of  marching  files,  nor 
clang  of  horsemen's  steel. 

No  trains  of  deep-mouthed  cannon  along 

our  highways  go,  — 
Around  our  silent  arsenals    untrodden 

lies  the  snow  ; 
And  to  the  land-breeze  of  our  ports,  upon 

their  errands  far, 
A  thousand  sails  of  commerce  swell,  but 

none  are  spread  for  war. 

We   hear    thy   threats,    Virginia  !    thy 

stormy  words  and  high, 
Swell  harshly   on  the  Southern  winds 

which  melt  along  our  sky  ; 
Yet,  not  one  brown,  hard  hand  foregoes 

its  honest  labor  here, 
No  hewer  of  our  mountain  oaks  suspends 

his  axe  in  fear. 

Wild  are  the  waves  which  lash  the  reefs 

along  St.  George's  bank,  — 
Cold  on  the  shore  of  Labrador  the  fog 

lies  white  and  dank  ; 
Through  storm,  and  wave,  and  blinding 

mist,  stout  are  the  hearts  which  man 
The  fishing-smacks  of  Marblehead,   the 

sea-boats  of  Cape  Ann. 

The  cold  north  light  and  wintry  sun 
glare  on  their  icy  forms, 

Bent  grimly  o'er  their  straining  lines  or 
wrestling  with  the  storms  ; 


Free  as  the  winds  they  drive  before, 
rough  as  the  waves  they  roam, 

They  laugh  to  scorn  the  slaver's  threat 
against  their  rocky  home. 

What  means  the  Old  Dominion  ?    Hath 

she  forgot  the  day 
When  o'er  her  conquered  valleys  swept 

the  Briton's  steel  array  ?" 
How  side  by  side,  with  sons  of  hers,  the 

Massachusetts  men 
Encountered  Tarleton's  charge  of  fire, 

and  stout  Cornwallis,  then  ? 

Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  in  an 
swer  to  the  call 

Of  her  old  House  of  Burgesses,  spoke  out 
from  Faneuil  Hall  ? 

When,  echoing  back  her  Henry's  cry, 
came  pulsing  on  each  breath 

Of  Northern  winds,  the  thrilling  sounds 
of  "  LIBERTY  on  DEATH  !  " 

What  asks  the  Old  Dominion  ?     If  now 

her  sons  have  proved 
False  to  their  fathers'  memory,  —  false 

to  the  faith  they  loved, 
If  she  can  scoff  at  Freedom,  and  its  great 

charter  spurn, 
Must  we  of  Massachusetts  from  truth 

and  duty  turn  ? 

We  hunt    your   bondmen,   flying  from 

Slavery's  hateful  hell,  — 
Our  voices,  at  your  bidding,  take  up  the 

bloodhound's  yell,  — 
We  gather,  at  your  summons,  above  our 

fathers'  graves, 
From  Freedom's  holy  altar-horns  to  tear 

your  wretched  slaves  ! 

Thank  God  !  not  yet  so  vilely  can  Massa 
chusetts  bow  ; 

The  spirit  of  her  early  time  is  with  her 
even  now  ; 

Dream  not  because  her  Pilgrim  blood 
moves  slow  and  calm  and  cool, 

She  thus  can  stoop  her  chainless  neck, 
a  sister's  slave  and  tool  ! 

All  that  a  sister  State  should  do,  all  that 

Si  free  State  may, 
Heart,  hand,  and  purse  we  proffer,  as  in 

our  early  day  ; 
But  that  one  dark  loathsome  burden  ye 

must  stagger  with  alone, 
And  reap  the  bitter  harvest  which  ye 

yourselves  have  sown  ! 


MASSACHUSETTS   TO   VIRGINIA. 


63 


Hold,  while  ye  may,    your  struggling 

slaves,  and  burden  God's  free  air 
With  woman's  shriek  beneath  the  lash, 

and  manhood's  wild  despair  ; 
Cling  closer  to  the  "cleaving  curse  "  that 

writes  upon  your  plains 
The  blasting  of  Almighty  wrath  against 

a  land  of  chains. 

Still  shame  your  gallant  ancestry,  the 

cavaliers  of  old, 
By  watching  round  the  shambles  where 

human  flesh  is  sold,  — 
Gloat  o'er  the  new-born  child,  arid  count 

his  market  value,  when 
The  maddened  mother's  cry  of  woe  shall 

pierce  the  slaver's  den  ! 

Lower  than  plummet  soundeth,  sink  the 

Virginia  name  ; 
Plant,  if  ye   will,  your  fathers'  graves 

with  rankest  weeds  of  shame  ; 
Be,  if  ye  will,  the  scandal  of  God's  fair 

universe,  — 
We  wash  our  hands  forever  of  your  sin 

and  shame  and  curse. 

A  voice  from  lips  whereon  the  coal  from 
Freedom's  shrine  hath  been, 

Thrilled,  as  but  yesterday,  the  hearts  of 
Berkshire's  mountain  men : 

The  echoes  of  that  solemn  voice  are  sadly 
lingering  still 

In  all  our  sunny  valleys,  on  every  wind 
swept  hill. 

And  when  the  prowling  man-thief  came 

hunting  for  his  prey 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  Bunker's 

shaft  of  gray, 
How,  through  the  free  lips  of  the  son, 

the  father's  warning  spoke  ; 
How,  from  its  bonds  of  trade  and  sect, 

the  Pilgrim  city  broke  ! 

A  hundred  thousand  right  arms  were 

lifted  up  on  high,  — 
A  hundred  thousand  voices  sent  back 

their  loud  reply  ; 
Through  the  thronged  towns  of  Essex 

the  startling  summons  rang, 
And  up  from  bench  and  loom  and  wheel 

her  young  mechanics  sprang  ! 

The  voice  of  free,  broad  Middlesex,  —  01 

thousands  as  of  one,  — 
The  shaft  of  Bunker  calling  to  that  of 

Lexington,  — 


From  Norfolk's  ancient  villages,  from 
Plymouth's  rocky  bound 

To  where  Nan  tucket  feels  the  arms  of 
ocean  close  her  round  ;  — 

From  rich  and  rural  Worcester,  where 

through  the  calm  repose 
Of  cultured  vales  and  fringing  woods  the 

gentle  Nashua  flows, 
To  where  Wachuset's  wintry  blasts  the 

mountain  larches  stir, 
Swelled  up  to  Heaven  the  thrilling  cry 

of  "  God  save  Latimer  !  " 

And  sandy  Barnstable  rose  up,  wet  with 

the  salt  sea  spray,  — 
And  Bristol   sent  her  answering  shout 

down  Narragansett  Bay  ! 
Along  the  broad  Connecticut  old  Hamp- 

den  felt  the  thrill, 
And  the  cheer  of  Hampshire's  woodmen 

swept  down  from  Holyoke  Hill. 

The  voice  of  Massachusetts  !     Of  her  free 

sons  and  daughters,  — 
Deep   calling  unto   deep   aloud,  —  the 

sound  of  many  waters  ! 
Against  the  burden  of  that  voice  what 

tyrant  power  shall  stand  ? 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State  !    No  slave 

upon  her  land  I 

Look  to  it  well,  Virginians  !  In  calm 
ness  we  have  borne, 

In  answer  to  our  faith  and  trust,  your 
insult  and  your  scorn  ; 

You  Ve  spurned  our  kindest  counsels,  — 
you  've  hunted  for  our  lives,  — 

And  shaken  round  our  hearths  and 
homes  your  manacles  and  gyves  ! 

We  wage  no  war,  —  we  lift  no  arm,  — 
we  fling  no  torch  within 

The  fire-damps  of  the  quaking  mine  be 
neath  your  soil  of  sin  ; 

Wo  leave  ye  with  your  bondmen,  to 
wrestle,  while  ye  can, 

With  the  strong  upward  tendencies  and 
godlike  soul  of  man  ! 

But  for  us  and  for  our  children,  the  vow 

which  we  have  given 
For  freedom  and  humanity  is  registered 

in  heaven  ; 
No  slave-hunt  in  our  borders,  —  nopirats 

on  our  strand  ! 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State,  —  no  slave 

upon  our  land  I 


64 


VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


THE  RELIC. 

[PENNSYLVANIA  HALL,  dedicated  to  Free  Discus 
sion  and  the  cause  of  human  liberty,  was  de 
stroyed  by  a  mob  in  1838.  The  following  was 
written  on  receiving  a  cane  wrought  from  a  frag 
ment  of  the  wood-work  which  the  fire  had 
spared.] 

TOKEN  of  friendship  true  and  tried, 
From  one  whose  fiery  heart  of  youth 

With  mine  has  beaten,  side  by  side, 
For  Liberty  and  Truth  ; 

With  honest  pride  the  gift  I  take, 

And  prize  it  for  the  giver's  sake. 

But  not  alone  because  it  tells 

Of  generous  hand  and  heart  sincere  ; 

Around  that  gift  of  friendship  dwells 
A  memory  doubly  dear,  — 

Earth's  noblest    aim,  —  man's  holiest 
thought, 

With  that  memorial  frail  imvrought  ! 

Pure  thoughts  and  sweet,  like  flowers 
unfold, 

And  precious  memories  round  it  cling, 
Even  as  the  Prophet's  rod  of  old 

In  beauty  blossoming  : 
And  buds  of  feeling  pure  and  good 
Spring  from  its  cold  unconscious  wood. 

Relic  of  Freedom's  shrine  !  —  a  brand 
Plucked  from  its  burning  !  —  let  it  be 

Dear  as  a  jewel  from  the  hand 
Of  a  lost  friend  to  me  !  — 

Flower  of  a  perished  garland  left, 

Of  life  and  beauty  unbereft  ! 

0,  if  the  young  enthusiast  bears, 
O'er  weary  waste  and  sea,  the  stone 

Which  crumbled  from  the  Forum's  stairs, 
Or  round  the  Parthenon  ; 

Or  olive-bough  from  some  wild  tree 

Hung  over  old  Thermopylae  : 

If  leaflets  from  some  hero's  tomb, 

Or     moss-wreath     torn     from     ruins 
hoary,  — 

Or  faded  flowers  whose  sisters  bloom 
On  fields  renowned  in  story,  — 

Or  fragment  from  the  Alhambra's  crest, 

Or  the  gray  rock  by  Druids  blessed  ; 

Sad  Erin's  shamrock  greenly  growing 
Where  Freedom  led  her  stalwart  kern, 

Or  Scotia's  "  rough  bur  thistle  "  blowing 
On  Bruce's  Bannockburn,  — 


Or  Runnymede's  wild  English  rose, 
Or    lichen    plucked    from     Sempach's 
snows  !  — 

If  it  be  true  that  things  like  these 
To  heart  and  eye  bright  visions  bringj 

Shall  not  far  holier  memories 
To  this  memorial  cling  ? 

Which   needs    no  mellowing    mist  of 
time 

To  hide  the  crimson  stains  of  crime  ! 

Wreck  of  a  temple,  unprofaned,  — 
Of  courts  where  Peace  with  Freedom 

trod, 
Lifting  on  high,  with  hands  unstained, 

Thanksgiving  unto  God  ; 
Where  Mercy's  voice  of  love  was  plead 
ing 
For  human  hearts  in  bondage  bleeding !  — 

Where,  midst  the  sound  of  rushing  feet 
And  curses  on  the  night-air  flung, 

That  pleading  voice  rose  calm  and  sweet 
From  woman's  earnest  tongue  ; 

And  Riot  turned  his  scowling  glance, 

Awed,  from  her  tranquil  countenance  ! 

That  temple  now  in  ruin  lies  !  — 
The  fire-stain  on  its  shattered  wall, 

And  open  to  the  changing  skies 
Its  black  and  roofless  hall, 

It  stands  before  a  nation's  sight, 

A  gravestone  ovej  buried  Right ! 

But  from  that  ruin,  as  of  old, 

The   fire-scorched    stones    themselves 

are  crying, 
And  from  their  ashes  white  and  cold 

Its  timbers  are  replying  ! 
A  voice  which  slavery  cannot  kill 
Speaks  from  the  crumbling  arches  still ! 

And  even  this  relic  from  thy  shrine, 
0  holy  Freedom  !  hath  to  me 

A  potent  power,  a  voice  and  sign 
To  testify  of  thee  ; 

And,  grasping  it,  methinks  I  feel 

A  deeper  faith,  a  stronger  zeal. 

And  not  unlike  that  mystic  rod, 

Of  old  stretched  o'er  the   Egyptian 
wave, 

Which  opened,  in  the  strength  of  God, 
A  pathway  for  the  slave, 

It  yet  may  point  the  bondman's  way, 

And  turn  the  spoiler  from  his  prey. 


THE   BRANDED   HAND. 


65 


THE  BRANDED  HAND. 

1846. 

WELCOME  home  again,  brave  seaman  ! 

with  thy  thoughtful  brow  and  gray, 
And  the  old  heroic  spirit  of  our  earlier, 

better  day,  — 
With  that  front  of  calm  endurance,  on 

whose  steady  nerve  in  vain 
Pressed  the  iron  of  the  prison,  smote  the 

fiery  shafts  of  pain  ! 

Is  the  tyrant's  brand  upon  thee  ?     Did 

the  brutal  cravens  aim 
F  To  make  God's  truth  thy  falsehood,  his 
holiest  work  thy  shame  ?  f 

When,  all  blood-quenched,  from  the  tor 
ture  the  iron  was  withdrawn, 

How  laughed  their  evil  angel  the  baffled 
fools  to  scorn  ! 

I  Tliey  change  to  wrong  the  duty  which 

God  hath  written  out 
On  the  great  heart  of  humanity,   too 
legible  for  doubt !  | 

the     loathsome     moral    lepers, 
blotched  from  footsole  up  to  crown, 
(  Give  to  shame  what  God  hath  given  unto 
honor  and  renown  !  I 

Why,  that  brand  is  highest  honor  !  — 

than  its  traces  never  yet 
Upon  old   armorial  hatchments  was  a 

prouder  blazon  set ; 
And   thy  unborn   generations,  as   they 

tread  our  rocky  strand, 
Shall  tell  with  pride  the  story  of  their 

father's  BRANDED  HAND  ! 

As  the  Templar  home  was  welcome,  bear 
ing  back  from  Syrian  wars 

The  scars  of  Arab  lances  and  of  Paynim 
scymitars, 

The  pallor  of  the  prison,  and  the  shackle's 
crimson  span, 

Bo  we  meet  thee,  so  we  greet  thee,  truest 
friend  of  God  and  man. 

He  suffered  for  the  ransom  of  the  dear 
Redeemer's  grave, 

Thou  for  his  living  presence  in  the  bound 
and  bleeding  slave  ; 

He  for  a  soil  no  longer  by  the  feet  of  an 
gels  trod, 

Thou  for  the  true  Shechinah,  the  pres 
ent  home  of  God  ! 


For,  while  the  jurist,  sitting  with  the 

slave-whip  o'er  him  swung, 
From  the  tortured  truths  of  freedom  the 

lie  of  slavery  wrung, 
And   the  solemn  priest  to  Moloch,  on 

each  God-deserted  shrine, 
Broke  the  bondman's  heart  for  bread, 

poured  the    bondman's    blood  for 

wine,  — 

While  the  multitude  in  blindness  to  a 

far-off  Saviour  knelt, 
And  spurned,    the    while,   the  temple 

where  a  present  Saviour  dwelt  ; 
Thou  beheld' st  him  in  the  task-field,  in 

the  prison  shadows  dim, 
And  thy  mercy  to  the  bondman,  it  was 

mercy  unto  him  ! 

In  thy  lone  and  long  night-watches,  sky 

above  and  wave  below, 
Thou  didst  learn  a  higher  wisdom  than 

the  babbling  schoolmen  know  ; 
(God's  stars  and  silence  taught  thee,  as 

his  angels  only  can,  | 
That  the  one  sole  sacred  thing  beneath 

the  cope  of  heaven  is  Man  ! 

That  he  who  treads  profanely  on   the 

scrolls  of  law  and  creed, 
In  the  depth  of  God's  great  goodness 

may  find  mercy  in  his  need  ; 
But  woe  to  him  who  crushes  the  SOUL 

with  chain  and  rod, 
And  herds  with  lower  natures  the  awful 

form  of  God  ! 

Then  lift  that  manly  right-hand,  bold 
ploughman  of  the  wave  ! 

Its  branded  palm  shall  prophesy,  "  SAL 
VATION  TO  THE  SLAVE  !  " 

Hold  up  its  fire-wrought  language,  that 
whoso  reads  may  feel 

His  heart  swell  strong  within  him,  hiy 
sinews  change  to  steel. 

Hold  it    up  before   our    sunshine,    up 

against  our  Northern  air,  — 
Ho  !  men  of  Massachusetts,  for  the  lov« 

of  God,  look  there  ! 
Take   it  henceforth  for   your  standard, 

like  the  Bruce's  heart  of  yore, 
In  the  dark  strife  closing  round  ye,  let 

that  hand  be  seen  before  ! 

And  the  tyrants  of  the  slave-land  shall 
tremble  at  that  sign, 


66 


VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


When  it  points  its  finger  Southward 

along  the  Puritan  line  : 
Woe  to  the  State-gorged  leeches  and  the 

Church's  locust  band, 
When  they  look  from  slavery's  ramparts 

on  the  coming  of  that  hand  ! 


TEXAS. 

VOICE   OF   NEW   ENGLAND. 

UP  the  hillside,  down  the  glen, 
Rouse  the  sleeping  citizen  ; 
Summon  out  the  might  of  men  ! 

kike  a  lion  growling  low,  — 
Like  a  night-storm,  rising  slow,  — 
Like  the  tread  of  unseen  foe,  — 

It  is  coming,  —  it  is  nigh  ! 
Stand  your  homes  and  altars  by  ; 
On  your  own  free  thresholds  die. 

Clang  the  bells  in  all  your  spires  ; 
On  the  gray  hills  of  your  sires 
Fling  to  heaven  your  signal-fires. 

From  Wachuset,  lone  and  bleak, 

Tin  to  Berkshire's  tallest  peak, 

Let  the  flame-tongued  heralds  speak. 

0,  for  God  and  duty  stand, 
Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
Round  the  old  graves  of  the  land. 

Whoso  shrinks  or  falters  now, 
Whoso  to  the  yoke  would  bow, 
Brand  the  craven  on  his  brow  ! 

Freedom's  soil  hath  only  place 
For  a  free  and  fearless  race,  — 
None  for  traitors  false  and  base. 

Perish  party,  —  perish  clan  ; 
Strike  together  while  ye  can, 
Like  the  arm  of  one  strong  man. 

Like  that  angel's  voice  sublime, 
Heard  above  a  world  of  crime, 
Crying  of  the  end  of  time,  — 

With  one  heart  and  with  one  mouth, 
Let  the  North  unto  the  South 
Speak  the  word  befitting  both  : 

"  What  though  Issachar  be  strong  ! 
Ye  may  load  his  back  with  wrong 
Overmuch  and  over  long  : 


"  Patience  with  her  cup  o'errun, 
With  her  weary  thread  outspun, 
Murmurs  that  her  work  is  done. 

"  Make  our  Union-bond  a  chain, 
Weak  as  tow  in  Freedom's  strain 
Link  by  link  shall  snap  in  twain. 

' '  Vainly  shall  your  sand-wrought  rope 
Bind  the  starry  cluster  up, 
Shattered  over  heaven's  blue  cope  ! 

"  Give  us  bright  though  broken  rays, 
Rather  than  eternal  haze, 
Clouding  o'er  the  full-orbed  blaze. 

"  Take  your  land  of  sun  and  bloom  ; 

Only  leave  to  Freedom  room 

For  her  plough,  and  forge,  and  loom  ; 

"  Take  your  slavery-blackened  vales  ; 
Leave  us  but  our  own  free  gales, 
Blowing  on  our  thousand  sails. 

"  Boldly,  or  with  treacherous  art, 
Strike  the  blood-wrought  chain  apart  ; 
Break  the  Union's  mighty  heart  ; 

"  Work  the  ruin,  if  ye  will  ; 
Pluck  upon  your  heads  an  ill 
Which  shall  grow  and  deepen  still. 

"  With  your  bondman's  right  arm  bare, 
With  his  heart  of  black  despair, 
Stand  alone,  if  stand  ye  dare  ! 

"Onward  with  your  fell  design  ; 
Dig  the  gulf  and  draw  the  line  : 
Fire  beneath  your  feet  the  mine  : 

"Deeply,  when  the  wide  abyss 
Yawns  between  your  land  and  this, 
Shall  ye  feel  your  helplessness. 

"  By  the  hearth,  and  in  the  bed, 
Shaken  by  a  look  or  tread, 
Ye  shall  own  a  guilty  dread. 

"  And  the  curse  of  unpaid  toil, 
Downward  through  your  generous  soil 
Like  a  fire  shall  burn  and  spoil. 

"  Our  bleak  hills  shall  bud  and  blow, 
Vines  our  rocks  shall  overgrow, 
Plenty  in  our  valleys  flow  ;  — 

"  And  when  vengeance  clouds  your  skies, 
Hither  shall  ye  turn  your  eyes, 
As  the  lost  on  Paradise  1 


TO   MASSACHUSETTS. 


67 


"  "We  but  ask  our  rocky  strand, 
Freedom's  true  and  brother  band, 
Freedom's  strong  and  honest  hand, 

"Valleys  by  the  slave  untrod, 
And  the  Pilgrim's  mountain  sod, 
Blessed  of  our  fathers'  God  !  " 


TO  FANEIJIL  HALL. 
1844. 

MEN  !  —  if  manhood  still  ye  claim, 

If  the  Northern  pulse  can  thrill, 
Roused  by  wrong  or  stung  by  shame, 

Freely,  strongly  still,  — 
Let  the  sounds  of  traffic  die  : 

Shut  the  mill-gate,  — leave  the  stall,  — 
Fling  the  axe  and  hammer  by,  — 

Throng  to  Faneuil  Hall  ! 

"Wrongs  which  freemen  never  brooked,  — 

Dangers  grim  and  fierce  as  they, 
"Which,  like  couching  lions,  looked 

On  your  fathers'  way,  — 
These  your  instant  zeal  demand, 

Shaking  with  their  earthquake-call 
Every  rood  of  Pilgrim  land, 

Ho,  to  Faneuil  Hall  ! 

From  your  capes  and  sandy  bars,  — 

From  your  mountain -ridges  cold, 
Through  whose  pines  the  westering  stars 

Stoop  their  crowns  of  gold,  — 
Come,  and  with  your  footsteps  wake 

Echoes  from  that  holy  wall  ; 
Once  again,  for  Freedom's  sake, 

Eock  your  fathers'  hall  ! 

dp,  and  tread  beneath  your  feet 

Every  cord  by  party  spun  : 
Let  your  hearts  together  beat 

As  the  heart  of  one. 
Banks  and  tariffs,  stocks  and  trade, 

Let  them  rise  or  let  them  fall : 
Freedom  asks  your  common  aid,  — 

Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall  ! 

Up,  and  let  each  voice  that  speaks 

Ring  from  thence  to  Southern  plains, 
Sharply  as  the  blow  which  breaks 

Prison-bolts  and  chains  ! 
Speak  as  well  becomes  the  free  : 

Dreaded  more  than  steel  or  ball, 
Shall  your  calmest  utterance  be, 

Heard  from  Faneuil  Hall  ! 


Have  they  wronged  us  ?    Let  us  then 

Render  back  nor  threats  nor  prayers  ; 
Have  they  chained  our  free-born  men  ? 

LET   US   UNCHAIN   THEIRS  ! 

Up,  your  banner  leads  the  van, 
Blazoned,  "  Liberty  for  all  !  " 

Finish  what  your  sires  began  ! 
Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall  ! 


TO  MASSACHUSETTS. 
1844. 

WHAT  though  around  thee  blazes 

No  fiery  rallying  sign  ? 
From  all  thy  own  high  places, 

Give  heaven  the  light  of  thine  ! 
What  though  unthrilled,  unmoving, 

The  statesman  stand  apart, 
And  comes  no  warm  approving 

From  Mammon's  crowded  mart  ? 

Still,  let  the  land  be  shaken 

By  a  summons  of  thine  own  ! 
By  all  save  truth  forsaken, 

Why,  stand  with  that  alone  ! 
Shrink  not  from  strife  unequal  ! 

With  the  best  is  always  hope  ; 
And  ever  in  the  sequel 

God  holds  the  right  side  up  ! 

But  when,  with  thine  uniting, 

Come  voices  long  and  loud, 
And  far-off  hills  are  writing 

Thy  fire -words  on  the  cloud  ; 
When  from  Penobscot's  fountains 

A  deep  response  is  heard, 
And  across  the  Western  mountains 

Rolls  back  thy  rallying  word  ; 

Shall  thy  line  of  battle  falter, 

With  its  allies  just  in  view  ? 
0,  by  hearth  and  holy  altar, 

My  fatherland,  be  true  ! 
Fling  abroad  thy  scrolls  of  Freedom  ! 

Speed  them  onward  far  and  fast  ! 
Over  hill  and  valley  speed  them, 

Like  the  sibyl's  on  the  blast  ! 

Lo  !  the  Empire  State  is  shaking 

The  shackles  from  her  hand  ; 
With  the  rugged  North  is  waking 

The  level  sunset  land  ! 
On  they  come,  —  the  free  battalions  ! 

East  and  West  and  North  they  come, 
And  the  heart-beat  of  the  millions 

Is  the  beat  of  Freedom's  drum. 


68 


VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


"  To  the  tyrant's  plot  no  favor  ! 

No  heed  to  place-fed  knaves  ! 
Bar  and  bolt  the  door  forever 

Against  the  land  of  slaves  !  " 
Hear  it,  mother  Earth,  and  hear  it, 

The  Heavens  above  us  spread  ! 
The  land  is  roused,  —  its  spirit 

Was  sleeping,  but  not  dead  1 


THE   PINE-TREE. 
1846. 

LIFT  again  the  stately  emblem  on  the 

Bay  State's  rusted  shield, 
Give  to  Northern  winds  the  Pine-Tree 

on  our  banner's  tattered  field. 
Sons  of  men  who  sat  in  council  with  their 

Bibles  round  the  board, 
Answering  England's  royal  missive  with 

a  firm,  "  THUS  SAITH  THE  LORD  !" 
Rise  again  for  home  and  freedom  !  —  set 

the  battle  in  array  !  — 
What  the  fathers  did  of  old  time  we 

their  sons  must  do  to-day. 

Tell  us  not  of  banks  and  tariffs,  —  cease 

your  paltry  pedler  cries,  — 
Shall  the  good  State  sink  her  honor  that 

your  gambling  stocks  may  rise  ? 
Would  ye  barter  man  for  cotton  ? —  That 

your  gains  may  sum  up  higher, 
Must  we  kiss  the  feet  of  Moloch,  pass 

our  children  through  the  fire  ? 
Is  the  dollar  only  real  ?  —  God  and  truth 

and  right  a  dream  ? 
Weighed  against  your  lying  ledgers  must 

our  manhood  kick  the  beam  ? 

0  my  God  !  —  for  that  free  spirit,  which 

of  old  in  Boston  town 
Smote  the  Province  House  with  terror, 

struck  the  crest  of  Andros  down  !  — 
For  another  strong-voiced  Adams  in  the 

city's  streets  to  cry, 
"  Up  for  God  and  Massachusetts  !  —  Set 

your  feet  on  Mammon's  lie  ! 
Perish  banks  and  perish  traffic,  —  spin 

your  cotton's  latest  pound,  — 
Butin  Heaven's  namekeepyour  honor,  — 

keep  the  heart  o'  the  Bay  State 

sound  !  " 

Where  's  the  MAN  for  Massachusetts  ?  — 
Where 's  the  voice  to  speak  her 
free?  — 


Where  's  the  hand  to  light  up  bonfires 

from  her  mountains  to  the  sea  < 
Beats  her  Pilgrim  pulse  no  longer  ?  -  - 

Sits  she  dumb  in  her  despair  ?  — 
Has  she  none  to  break  the  silence  ?  — 

Has  she  none  to  do  and  dare  1 
0  my  God  !  for  one  right  worthy  to  lift 

up  her  rusted  shield, 
And  to  plant  again  the  Pine-Tree  in  her 

banner's  tattered  field  ! 


LINES, 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  VISIT  TO  THE  CITY  OF 
WASHINGTON,  IN  THE  12T1I  MONTH 
OF  1845. 

WITH  a  cold  and  wintry  noon-light, 

On  its  roofs  and  steeples  shed, 
Shadows  weaving  with  the  sunlight 

From  the  gray  sky  overhead, 
Broadly,  vaguely,  all  around  me,  lies  the 
half-built  town  outspread. 

Through  this  broad  street,  restless  ever, 

Ebbs  and  flows  a  human  tide, 
Wave  on  wave  a  living  river  ; 

Wealth  and  fashion  side  by  side  \ 
Toiler,  idler,  slave  and  master,  in  the 
same  quick  current  glide. 

Underneath  yon  dome,  whose  coping 
Springs  above  them,  vast  and  tall, 
Grave  men  in  the  dust  are  groping 
For  the  largess,  base  and  small, 
Which  the  hand  of  Power  is  scattering, 
crumbs  which  from  its  table  fall. 

Base  of  heart  !     They  vilely  barter 
Honor's  wealth  for  party's  place  : 
Step  by  step  on  Freedom's  charter 

Leaving  footprints  of  disgrace  ; 

For  to-day's  poor  pittance  turning  from 

the  great  hope  of  their  race. 

Yet,  where  festal  lamps  are  throwing 

Glory  round  the  dancer's  hair, 
Gold-tressed,  like  an  angel's,  flowing 

Backward  on  the  sunset  air  ; 
And  the  low  quick  pulse  of  music  beats 
its  measure  sweet  and  rare  : 

There  to-night  shall  woman's  glances, 

Star-like,  welcome  give  to  them, 
Fawning  fools  with  shy  advances 

Seek  to  touch  their  garments'  hem, 
With  the  tongue  of  flattery  glozing  deed* 
which  God  and  Truth  condemn 


LINES. 


69 


From  this  glittering  lie  my  vision 
Takes  a  broader,  sadder  range, 
Full  before  ine  have  arisen 

Other  pictures  dark  and  strange  ; 
From  the  parlor  to  the  prison  must  the 
scene  and  witness  change. 

Hark  !  the  heavy  gate  is  swinging 
On  its  hinges,  harsh  and  slow  ; 
One  pale  prison  lamp  is  flinging 

On  a  fearful  group  below 
Such  a  light  a*s  leaves  to  terror  whatso 
e'er  it  does  not  show. 

Pitying  God  !  —  Is  that  a  WOMAN 

On  whose  wrist  the  shackles  clash  ? 
Is  that  shriek  she  utters  human, 
Underneath  the  stinging  lash  ? 
(Ire  they  MEN  whose  eyes  of  madness 
from  that  sad  procession  flash  ? 

Still  the  dance  goes  gayly  onward  ! 
What  is  it  to  Wealth  and  Pride 
That  without  the  stars  are  looking 

On  a  scene  which  earth  should  hide  ? 
That  the   SLAVE- SHIP  lies  in  waiting, 
rocking  on  Potomac's  tide  ! 

Vainly  to  that  mean  Ambition 

Which,  upon  a  rival's  fall, 
Winds  above  its  old  condition, 
With  a  reptile's  slimy  crawl, 
Shall  the  pleading  voice  of  sorrow,  shall 
the  slave  in  anguish  call. 

Vainly  to  the  child  of  Fashion, 

Giving  to  ideal  woe 
Graceful  luxury  of  compassion, 

Shall  the  stricken  mourner  go  ; 
Hateful  seems  the  earnest  sorrow,  beau 
tiful  the  hollow  show  ! 

Nay,  my  words  are  all  too  sweeping  : 

In  this  crowded  human  mart, 
Feeling  is  not  dead,  but  sleeping  ; 

Man's  strong  will  and  woman's  heart, 
IP.  the  coming  strife  for  Freedom,  yet 
shall  bear  their  generous  part. 

And  from  yonder  sunny  valleys, 

Southward  in  the  distance  lost, 
Freedom  yet  shall  summon  allies 

Worthier  than  the  North  can  boast, 
With  the   Evil  by  their  hearth-stones 
grappling  at  severer  cost. 

Now,  the  soul  alone  is  willing  : 
Faint  the  heart  and  weak  the  knee  ; 


And  as  yet  no  lip  is  thrilling 

With  the  mighty  words, "  BE  FREE  ! " 
Tarrieth  long  the   land's  Good  Angel, 
but  his  advent  is  to  be  ! 

Meanwhile,  turning  from  the  revel 

To  the  prison-cell  my  sight, 
For  intenser  hate  of  evil, 

For  a  keener  sense  of  right, 
Shaking  off  thy  dust,  I  thank  thee,  City 
of  the  Slaves,  to-night ! 

"  To  thy  duty  now  and  ever  ! 

Dream  no  more  of  rest  or  stay  ; 
Give  to  Freedom's  great  endeavor 

All  thou  art  and  hast  to-day  "  :  — 
Thus,  above  the  city's  murmur,  saith  a 
Voice,  or  seems  to  say. 

Ye  with  heart  and  vision  gifted 
To  discern  and  love  the  right, 
Whose  worn  faces  have  been  lifted 

To  the  slowly -growing  light, 
Where   from   Freedom's  sunrise  drifted 
slowly  back  the  murk  of  night !  — 

Ye  who  through  long  years  of  trial 

Still  have  held  your  purpose  fast, 

While  a  lengthening  shade  the  dial 

From  the  westering  sunshine  cast, 
And  of  hope  each  hour's  denial  seemed 
an  echo  of  the  last  !  — 

0  my  brothers  !  0  my  sisters  ! 

Would  to  God  that  ye  were  near, 
Gazing  with  me  down  the  vistas 
Of  a  sorrow  strange  and  drear  ; 
Would  to  God  that  ye  were  listeners  to 
the  Voice  I  seem  to  hear  ! 

With  the  storm  above  us  driving, 

With  the  false  earth  mined  below,  — 
Who  shall  marvel  if  thus  striving 
We  have  counted  friend  as  foe  ; 
Unto  one  another  giving  in  the  darkness 
blow  for  blow. 

Well  it  may  be  that  our  natures 

Have  grown  sterner  and  more  hard, 
And  the  freshness  of  their  features 

Somewhat  harsh  and  battle-scarred, 
And  their  harmonies   of  feeling  over 
tasked  and  rudely  jarred. 

Be  it  so.     It  should  not  swerve  us 
From  a  purpose  true  and  brave  ; 


70 


VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


Dearer  Freedom's  ragged  service 

Than  the  pastime  of  the  slave  ; 
Better  is  the  storm  above  it  than  the 
quiet  of  the  grave. 

Let  us  then,  uniting,  bury 

All  our  idle  feuds  in  dust, 
And  to  future  conflicts  carry 

Mutual  faith  and  common  trust  ; 
Always  he  who  most  forgiveth  in   his 
brother  is  most  just. 

From  the  eternal  shadow  rounding 

All  our  sun  and  starlight  here, 

Voices  of  our  lost  ones  sounding 

Bid  us  be  of  heart  and  cheer, 

Through  the  silence,  clown  the  spaces, 

falling  on  the  inward  ear. 

Know  we  not  our  dead  are  looking 

Downward  with  a  sad  surprise, 
All  our  strife  of  words  rebuking 

"With  their  mild  and  loving  eyes  ? 
Shall  we  grieve  the  holy  angels  ?    Shall 
we  cloud  their  blessed  skies  ? 

Let  us  draw  their  mantles  o'er  us 
Which  have  fallen  in  our  way  ; 
Let  us  do  the  work  before  us, 

Cheerly,  bravely,  while  we  may, 
Ere  the  long  night-silence  cometh,  and 
with  us  it  is  not  day  ! 


LINES, 

FROM    A   LETTER    TO    A    YOUNG    CLERI 
CAL  FRIEND. 

A  STRENGTH  Thy  service  cannot  tire,  — 
A  faith  which  doubt  can  never  dim,  — 

A  heart  of  love,  a  lip  of  fire,  — 

0  Freedom's  God  !  be  thou  to  him  ! 

Speak  through  him  words  of  power  and 
fear, 

As  through  thy  prophet  bards  of  old, 
And  let  a  scornful  people  hear 

Once  more  thy  Sinai-thunders  rolled. 

For  lying  lips  thy  blessing  seek, 

And  hands  of  blood  are  raised  to  Thee, 

And  on  thy  children,  crushed  and  weak, 
The  oppressor  plants  hiskneelingknee. 

Let  then,  0  God  !  thy  servant  dare 
Thy  truth  in  all  its  power  to  tell, 


Unmask  the  priestly  thieves,  and  tear 
The  Bible  from  the  grasp  of  hell  ! 

From  hollow  rite  and  narrow  span 
Of  law  and  sect  by  Thee  released, 

0,  teach  him  that  the  Christian  man 
Is  holier  than  the  Jewish  priest. 

Chase  back  the  shadows,  gray  and  old, 
Of  the  dead  ages,  from  his  way, 

And  let  his  hopeful  eyes  behold 

The  dawn  of  thy  millennial  day  ;  — 

That  day  when  fettered  limb  and  mind 
Shall  know  the  truth  which  maketh 
free, 

And  he  alone  who  loves  his  kind 

Shall,  childlike,  claim  the  love  of  Thee ! 


YORKTOWN.36 

FROM  Yorktown's  ruins,  ranked  and  still, 
Two  lines  stretch  far  o'er  vale  and  hill : 
Who  curbs  his  steed  at  head  of  one  ? 
Hark  !  the  low  murmur  :  Washington  ! 
Who  bends  his  keen,  approving  glance 
Where  down  the  gorgeous  line  of  France 
Shine  knightly  star  and  plume  of  snow  ? 
Thou  too  art  victor,  Rochambeau  ! 

The  earth  which  bears  this  calm  array 
Shook  with  the  war-charge  yesterday, 
Ploughed  deep  with  hurrying  hoof  and 

wheel, 

Shot-sown  and  bladed  thick  with  steel ; 
October's  clear  and  noonday  sun 
Paled  in  the  breath -smoke  of  the  gun, 
And  down  night's  double  blackness  fell, 
Like  a  dropped  star,  the  blazing  shell. 

Now  all  is  hushed  :  the  gleaming  lines 
Stand  moveless  as  the  neighboring  pines ; 
While  through  them,  sullen,  grim,  and 

slow, 

The  conquered  hosts  of  England  go  : 
O'Hara's  brow  belies  his  dress, 
Gay  Tarleton's  troop  rides  bannerless : 
Shout,  from  thy  fired  and  wasted  homes, 
Thy  scourge,  Virginia,  captive  comes  ! 

Nor  thou  alone  :  with  one  glad  voice 
Let  all  thy  sister  States  rejoice  ; 
Let  Freedom,  in  whatever  clime 
She  waits  with  sleepless  eye  her  time, 
Shouting  from  cave  and  moTintain  wood 
Make  glad  her  desert  solitude, 


LINES. 


71 


While  they  who  hunt  her  quail  with  fear  ; 
The  New  World's  chain  lies  broken  here  ! 

But  who  are  they,  who,  cowering,  wait 
Within  the  shattered  fortress  gate  ? 
Dark  tillers  of  Virginia's  soil, 
Classed  with  the  battle's  common  spoil, 
With  household  stuffs,  and  fowl,  and 

swine, 

With  Indian  weed  and  planters'  wine, 
With  stolen  beeves,  and  foraged  corn,  — 
Are  they  not  men,  Virginian  bom  ? 

0,  veil  your  faces,  young  and  brave  ! 
Sleep,  Scammel,  in  thy  soldier  grave  ! 
Sons  of  the  Northland,  ye  who  set 
Stout  hearts  against  the  bayonet, 
And  pressed  with  steady  footfall  near 
The  moated  battery's  blazing  tier, 
Turn  your  scarred  faces  from  the  sight, 
Let  shame  do  homage  to  the  right  ! 

Lo  !  threescore  years  have  passed  ;  and 

where 

The  Gallic  timbrel  stirred  the  air, 
With  Northern  drum-roll,  and  the  clear, 
Wild  horn-blow  of  the  mountaineer, 
While  Britain  grounded  on  that  plain 
The  arms  she  might  not  lift  again, 
As  abject  as  in  that  old  day 
The  slave  still  toils  his  life  away. 

0,  fields  still  green  and  fresh  in  story, 
Old  days  of  pride,  old  names  of  glory, 
Old  marvels  of  the  tongue  and  pen, 
Old  thoughts  which  stirred  the  hearts 

of  men, 

Ye  spared  the  wrong  ;  and  over  all 
Behold  the  avenging  shadow  fall  ! 
Your  world-wide   honor    stained   with 

shame,  — 
Your  freedom's  self  a  hollow  name  ! 

Where  's  now  the  flag  of  that  old  war  ? 
Where  flows  its  stripe  ?     Where  burns 

its  star  ? 

Bear  witness,  Palo  Alto's  day, 
Dark  Vale  of  Palms,  red  Monterey, 
Where  Mexic  Freedom,  young  and  weak, 
Fleshes  the  Northern  eagle's  beak  ; 
Symbol  of  terror  and  despair, 
Of  chains  and  slaves,  go  seek  it  there  ! 

Laugh,  Prussia,  midst  thy  iron  ranks  ! 
Laugh,  Russia,  from  thy  Neva's  banks  ! 
Brave  sport  to  see  the  fledgling  born 
Of  Freedom  by  its  parent  torn  ! 


Safe  now  is  Speilberg's  dungeon  cell, 
Safe  drear  Siberia's  frozen  hell  : 
With  Slavery's  flag  o'er  both  unrolled, 
What  of  the  New  World  fears  the  Old  ? 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  IN  THE   BOOK   OF  A  FRIEND. 

ON  page  of  thine  I  cannot  trace 

The  cold  and  heartless  commonplace,  — 

A  statue's  iixed  and  marble  grace. 

For  ever  as  these  lines  I  penned, 

Still  with  the  thought  of  thee  will  blend 

That  of  some  loved  and  common  friend,  — 

Who  in  life's  desert  track  has  made 
His  pilgrim  tent  with  mine,  or  strayed 
Beneath  the  same  remembered  shade. 

And  hence  my  pen  unfettered  moves 
In  freedom  which  the  heart  approves,  — 
The  negligence  which  friendship  loves. 

And  wilt  thou  prize  my  poor  gift  less 

For  simple  air  and  rustic  dress, 

And  sign  of  haste  and  carelessness  ?  — 

0,  more  than  specious  counterfeit 

Of  sentiment  or  studied  wit, 

A  heart  like  thine  should  value  it. 

Yet  half  I  fear  my  gift  will  be 
Unto  thy  book,  if  not  to  thee, 
Of  more  than  doubtful  courtesy. 

A  banished  name  from  fashion's  sphere, 
A  lay  unheard  of  Beauty's  ear, 
Forbid,      disowned,  —  what     do     they 
here  ?  — 

Upon  my  ear  not  all  in  vain 

Came  the  sad  captive's  clanking  chain,  — 

The  groaning  from  his  bed  of  pain. 

And  sadder  still,  I  saw  the  woe 
Which  only  wounded  spirits  know 
When  Pride's  strong  footsteps  o'er  them 
go. 

Spurned  not  alone  in  walks  abroad, 
But  from  the  "  temples  of  the  Lord" 
Thrust  out  apart,  like  things  abhorred. 

Deep  as  I  felt,  and  stern  and  strong, 
In  words  which  Prudence  smothered  long, 
My  soul  spoke  out  against  the  wrong  ; 


72 


VOICES    OF   FEEEDOM. 


Not  mine  alone  the  task  to  speak 
Of  comfort  to  the  poor  and  weak, 
And  dry  the  tear  on  Sorrow's  cheek  ; 

But,  mingled  in  the  conflict  warm, 
To  pour  the  fiery  breath  of  storm 
Through  the  harsh  trumpet  of  Reform  ; 

To  brave  Opinion's  settled  frown, 
From  ermined  robe  and  saintly  gown, 
While  wrestling  reverenced  Error  down. 

Founts  gushed  beside  my  pilgrim  way, 
Cool  shadows  on  the  greensward  lay, 
Flowers  swung  upon  the  bending  spray. 

And,  broad  and  bright,  on  either  hand, 
Stretched  the  green  slopes  of  Fairy-land, 
With  Hope's  eternal  sunbow  spanned  ; 

Whence  voices  called  me  like  the  flow, 
Which  on  the  listener's  ear  will  grow, 
Of  forest  streamlets  soft  and  low. 

And  gentle  eyes,  which  still  retain 
Their  picture  on  the  heart  and  brain, 
Smiled,  beckoning  from  that  path  of 
pain. 

In  vain !  —  nor    dream,    nor  rest,    nor 

pause 

Remain  for  him  who  round  him  draws 
The  battered  mail  of  Freedom's  cause. 

From  youthful  hopes,  —  from  each  green 

spot 

Cf  young  Romance,  and  gentle  Thought, 
Where  storm  and  tumult  enter  not,  — 

From  each  fair  altar,  where  belong 
The  offerings  Love  reqiiires  of  Song 
In  homage  to  her  bright-eyed  throng,  — 

With  soul  and  strength,  with  heart  and 

hand, 

I  turned  to  Freedom's  struggling  band,  — 
To  the  sad  Helots  of  our  land. 

What   marvel   then   that   Fame   should 

turn 

Her  notes  of  praise  to  those  of  scorn,  — 
Her  gifts  reclaimed,  —  her  smiles  with 
drawn  ? 

What  matters  it  !  —  a  few  years  more, 
Life's  surge  so  restless  heretofore 
Shall  break  upon  the  unknown  shore  ! 


In  that  far  land  shall  disappear 

The  shadows  which  we  follow  here,  — 

The  mist-wreaths  of  our  atmosphere  ! 

Before  no  work  of  mortal  hand, 
Of  human  will  or  strength  expand 
The  pearl  gates  of  the  Better  Land  ; 

Alone  in  that  great  love  which  gave 
Life  to  the  sleeper  of  the  grave, 
Resteth  the  power  to  "seek  and  save." 

Yet,  if  the  spirit  gazing  through 

The  vista  of  the  past  can  view 

One  deed  to  Heaven  and  virtue  true,  — 

If  through  the  wreck  of  wasted  powers, 
Of    garlands    wreathed     from     Folly's 

bowers, 
Of  idle  aims  and  misspent  hours,  — 

The  eye  can  note  one  sacred  spot 

By  Pride  and  Self  profaned  not,  — 

A  green  place  in  the  waste  of  thought,  — 

Where  deed  or  word  hath  rendered  less 
"The  sum  of  human  wretchedness," 
And  Gratitude  looks  forth  to  bless,  — 

The  simple  burst  of  tenderest  feeling 
From  sad  hearts  worn  by  evil-dealing, 
For  blessing  on  the  hand  of  healing,  — • 

Better  than  Glory's  pomp  will  be 
That  green  and  blessed  spot  to  me, 
A  palm-shade  in  Eternity  !  — 

Something  of  Time  which  may  invite 
The  purified  and  spiritual  sight 
To  rest  on  with  a  calm  delight. 

And    when    the    summer    winds    shal] 

sweep 

With  their  light  wings  my  place  of  sleep, 
And  mosses  round  my  headstone  creep,  — 

If  still,  as  Freedom's  rallying  sign, 
Upon  the  young  heart's  altars  shine 
The  very  fires  they  caught  from  mine,  — 

If  words  my  lips  once  uttered  still, 
In  the  calm  faith  and  steadfast  will 
Of  other  hearts,  their  work  fulfil,  — 

Perchance  with  joy  the  soul  may  learn 
These  tokens,  and  its  eye  discern 
The  fires  which  on  those  altars  burn,  -< 


P.EAN. 


73 


A  marvellous  joy  that  even  then, 

The  spirit  hath  its  life  again, 

In  the  strong  hearts  of  mortal  men. 

Take,  lady,  then,  the  gift  I  bring, 

No  gay  and  graceful  offering,  — 

No  flower-smile  of  the  laughing  spring. 

Midst  the  green  buds  of  Youth's  fresh 

May, 

With  Fancy's  leaf-enwoven  bay, 
My  sad  and  sombre  gift  I  lay. 

And  if  it  deepens  in  thy  mind 

A  sense  of  suffering  human-kind,  — 

The  outcast  and  the  spirit-blind  : 

Oppressed  and  spoiled  on  every  side, 
By  Prejudice,  and  Scorn,  and  Pride, 
Life's  common  courtesies  denied  ; 

Sad  mothers  mourning  o'er  their  trust, 
Children  by  want  and  misery  nursed, 
Tasting  life's  bitter  cup  at  first ; 

If  to  their  strong  appeals  which  come 
From  fireless  hearth,  and  crowded  room, 
And  the  close  alley's  noisome  gloom,  — 

Though  dark  the  hands  upraised  to  thee 

In  mute  beseeching  agony, 

Thou  lend'st  thy  woman's  sympathy,  — 

Not  vainly  on  thy  gentle  shrine, 
Where  Love,  and  Mirth,  and  Friendship 

twine 
Their  varied  gifts,  I  offer  mine. 


1848. 

Now,  joy  and  thanks  fore  verm  ore  \ 
The  dreary  night  has  wellnigh 

The  slumbers  of  the  North  are  o'er, 
The  Giant  stands  erect  at  last  ! 

More  than  we  hoped  in  that  dark  time 
When,  faint  with  watching,  few  and 
worn, 

We  saw  no  welcome  day-star  climb 
The  cold  gray  pathway  of  the  morn  ! 

0  weary  hours  !  0  night  of  years  \ 
What   storms  our  darkling  pathway 
swept, 

Where,  beating  back  our  thronging  fears, 
By  Faith  alone  our  march  7?e  kept. 


How  jeered  the  scoffing  crowd  behind, 
How  mocked  before  the  tyrant  train, 

As,  one  by  one,  the  true  and  kind 
Fell  fainting  in  our  path  of  pain  ! 

They  died,  —  their  brave  hearts  breaking 
slow,  — 

But,  self-forgetful  to  the  last, 
In  words  of  cheer  and  bugle  blow 

Their  breath  upon  the  darkness  passedc 

A  mighty  host,  on  either  hand, 
Stood  waiting  for  the  dawn  of  day 

To  crush  like  reeds  our  feeble  band  ; 
The  morn  has  come,  —  and  where  are 
they? 

Troop  after  troop  their  line  forsakes  ; 

With     peace- white    banners    waving 

free, 
And  from  our  own  the  glad  shout  breaks, 

Of  Freedom  and  Fraternity  ! 

Like  mist  before  the  growing  light, 
The  hostile  cohorts  melt  away  ; 

Our  frowning  foemen  of  the  night 
Are  brothers  at  the  dawn  of  day  ! 

As  unto  these  repentant  ones 

We  open  wide  our  toil-worn  ranks, 

Along  our  line  a  murmur  runs 

Of    song,    and    praise,    and    grateful 
thanks. 

Sound  for  the  onset  !  —  Blast  on  blast ! 

Till     Slavery's    minions    cower    and 

quail  ; 
One  charge  of  fire  shall  drive  them  fast 

Like  chaff'  before  our  Northern  gale  ! 

0  prisoners  in  your  house  of  pain, 

Dumb,    toiling  millions,   bound  and 

sold, 
Look  !  stretched  o'er  Southern  vale  and 

plain, 
The  Lord's  delivering  hand  behold  ! 

Above  the  tyrant's  pride  of  power, 
His  iron  gates  and  guarded  wall, 

The    bolts    which    shattered    Shinar's 

tower 
Hang,  smoking,  for  a  fiercer  fall. 

Awake  !  awake  !  my  Fatherland  ! 

It  is  thy  Northern  light  that  shines  ; 
This  stirring  march  of  Freedom's  band 

The  storm- song  of  thy  mountain  pines. 


74 


VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


Wake,  dwellers  where  the  day  expires  ! 

And  hear,  in  winds  that  sweep  your 

lakes 
And  fan  your  prairies'  roaring  fires, 

The  signal-call  that  Freedom  makes  ! 


TO    THE    MEMORY    OF    THOMAS 
SHIPLEY. 

GONE  to  thy  Heavenly  Father's  rest  1 

The  flowers  of  Eden  round  thee  blow 
ing, 
And  on  thine  ear  the  murmurs  blest 

Of  Siloa's  waters  softly  flowing  ! 
Beneath  that  Tree  of  Life  which  gives 
To  all  the  earth  its  healing  leaves 
In  the  white  robe  of  angels  clad, 

And  wandering  by  that  sacred  river, 
"Whose  streams  of  holiness  make  glad 

The  city  of  our  God  forever  ! 

Gentlest  of  spirits  !  —  not  for  thee 

Our  tears  are  shed,  our  sighs  are  given ; 
Why  mourn  to  know  thou  art  a  free 

Partaker  of  the  joys  of  Heaven  ? 
Finished  thy  work,  and  kept  thy  faith 
In  Christian  firmness  unto  death  ; 
And  beautiful  as  sky  and  earth, 

When  autumn's  sun  is  downward  go 
ing. 
The  blessed  memory  of  thy  worth 

Around  thy  place  of  slumber  glowing  ! 

But  woe  for  us  !  who  linger  still 

With  feebler  strength  and  hearts  less 

lowly, 
And  minds  less  steadfast  to  the  will 

Of  Him  whose  every  work  is  holy. 
For  not  like  thine,  is  crucified 
The  spirit  of  our  human  pride  : 
And  at  the  bondman's  tale  of  woe, 

And  for  the  outcast  and  forsaken, 
Not  warm  like  thine,  but  cold  and  slow, 

Our  weaker  sympathies  awaken. 

Darkly  upon  our  struggling  way 

The  stonn  of  human  hate  is  sweeping  ; 
Hunted  and  branded,  and  a  prey, 

Our  watch  amidst  the  darkness  keep 
ing, 

0  for  that  hidden  strength  which  can 
Nerve  unto  death  the  inner  man  ! 
0  for  thy  spirit,  tried  and  true, 

And  constant  in  the  hour  of  trial, 
Prepared  to  suffer,  or  to  do, 

In  meekness  and  in  self-denial. 


0  for  that  spirit,  meek  and  mild, 

Derided,    spurned,    yet    uncomplain 
ing, — 
By  man  deserted  and  reviled, 

Yet  faithful  to  its  trust  remaining. 
Still  prompt  and  resolute  to  save 
From   scourge  and   chain    the    hunted 

slave  ; 

Unwavering  in  the  Truth's  defence, 
Even  where  the  fires  of  Hate  were 

burning, 

The  unquailing  eye  of  innocence 
Alone  upon  the  oppressor  turning  ! 

C  loved  of  thousands  !  to  thy  grave, 

Sorrowing  of  heart,  thy  brethren  bore 

thee. 
The  poor  man  and  the  rescued  slave 

Wept  as  the  broken  earth  closed  o'er 

thee; 

And  grateful  tears,  like  summer  rain, 
Quickened  its  dying  grass  again  ! 
And  there,  as  to  some  pilgrim -shrine, 

Shall  come  the  outcast  and  the  lowly, 
Of  gentle  deeds  and  vrord«  of  thine 

Recalling  memories  sweet  and  holy  ! 

0  for  the  death  the  righteous  die  ! 

An  end,  like  autumn's  day  declining, 
On  human  hearts,  as  on  the  sky, 

With  holier,  tenderer  beauty  shining  ; 
As  to  the  parting  soul  were  giv£n 
The  radiance  of  an  opening  Heaven  ! 
As  if  that  pure  and  blessed  light, 

From  off  the  Eternal  altar  flowing, 
Were  bathing,  in  its  upward  flight, 

The  spirit  to  its  worship  going  ! 


TO  A  SOUTHERN  STATESMAN. 

1846. 

Is  this  thy  voice,  whose  treble  notes  of 

fear 
Wail  in  the  wind  ?    And  dost  thou  shake 

to  hear, 
Actaeon-like,    the    bay  of    thine    own 

hounds, 
Spurning  the  leash,    and  leaping  o'er 

their  bounds  ? 
Sore-baffled  statesman  !  when  thy  eager 

hand, 
With  game  afoot,  unslipped  the  hungry 

pack, 
To  hunt  down  Freedom  in  her   chosen 

land, 


LINES. 


75 


Hadst    thou    no    fear,    that,    erelong, 

doubling  back, 
These  dogs   of    thine  might   snuff  on 

Slavery's  track  ? 
"Where  's  now  the  boast,  which  even  thy 

guarded  tongue, 
Cold,  calm,  and  proud,  in  the  teeth  o' 

the  Senate  flung, 

O'er  the  fulfilment  of  thy  baleful  plan, 
Like  Satan's  triumph  at  the  fall  of  man  ? 
How  stood'st  thou  then,  thy  feet   on 

Freedom  planting, 

And  pointing  to  the  lurid  heaven  afar, 
Whence  all  could  see,  through  the  south 

windows  slanting, 
Crimson   as  blood,    the  beams  of  that 

Lone  Star  ! 
The  Fates  are  just ;  they  give  us  but  our 

own  ; 
Nemesis  ripens  what   our  hands  have 

sown. 

There  is  an  Eastern  story,  not  unknown, 
Doubtless,  to  thee,  of  one  whose  magic 

skill 

Called  demons  up  his  water-jars  to  fill ; 
Deftly  and  silently,  they  did  his  will, 
But,    when  the    task  was   done,   kept 

pouring  still. 
In  vain  with  spell  and  charm  the  wizard 

wrought, 
Faster    and    faster    were    the    buckets 

brought, 

Higher  and  higher  rose  the  flood  around, 
Till  the  fiends  clapped  their  hands  above 

their  master  drowned  ! 
So,  Carolinian,  it  may  prove  with  thee, 
For  God  still  overrules  man's  schemes, 

and  takes 
Craftiness    in    its    self-set    snare,   and 

makes 
The  wrath  of  man  to  praise  Him.     It 

may  be, 

That  the  roused  spirits  of  Democracy 
May  leave  to  freer  States  the  same  wide 

door 
Through  which  thy  slave-cursed  T  xas 

entered  in, 
From  out  the  blood  and  fire,  the  wrong 

and  sin, 
Of  the   stormed   city  and  the  ghastly 

plain, 
Beat  by  hot  hail,  and  wet  with  bloody 

rain, 

A  myriad-handed  Aztec  host  may  pour, 
And  swarthy  South  with  pallid  North 

combine 
Back  on  thyself  to  turn  thy  dark  design. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  ADOPTION  OF  PINCK- 
NEY'S  RESOLUTIONS,  IN  THE  HOUSB 
OF  REPRESENTATIVES,  AND  THE  PAS 
SAGE  OF  CALHOUN'S  "  BILL  FOR  EX 
CLUDING  PAPERS  WRITTEN  OR  PRINT 
ED,  TOUCHING  THE  SUBJECT  OF 
SLAVERY,  FROM  THE  U.  S.  POST- 
OFFICE,"  IN  THE  SENATE  OF  THE 
UNITED  STATES. 

MEN   of  the  North-land  !  where  's  the 

manly  spirit 
Of  the  true-hearted  and  the  unshackled 

gone  ? 

Sons  of  old  freemen,  do  we  but  inherit 
Their  names  alone  ? 

Is  the  old  Pilgrim  spirit  quenched  with 
in  us, 
Stoops  the   strong  manhood  of  our 

souls  so  low, 

That  Mammon's  lure  or  Party's  wile  can 
win  us 

To  silence  now  ? 

Now,  when  our  land  to  ruin's  brink  is 

verging, 
In   God's   name,  let   us  speak   while 

there  is  time  ! 

Now,  when  the   padlocks  for   our  lips 
are  forging, 

Silence  is  crime  ! 

What !  shall  we  henceforth  humbly  ask 

as  favors 
Eights  all   our  own  ?      In    madness 

shall  we  barter, 

For    treacherous    peace,     the    freedom 
Nature  gave  us, 

God  and  our  charter  ? 

Here  shall  the  statesman  forge  his  hu 
man  fetters, 
Here   the  false  jurist  human  rights) 

deny, 

And,  in  the   church,  their  proud  and 
skilled  abettors 

Make  truth  a  lie  ? 

Torture  the  pages  of  the  hallowed  Bible, 
To  sanction  crime,  and  robbery,  and 

blood  ? 

And,   in    Oppression's   hateful   service, 
libel 

Both  man  and  God  ? 


76 


VOICES    OF   FREEDOM. 


Shall  our  New  England  stand  erect  no 

longer, 

But  stoop  in  chains  upon  her  down 
ward  way, 

Thicker    to  gather  on  her  limbs  and 
stronger 

Day  after  day  ? 

0  no  ;  methinks  from  all  her  wild,  green 

mountains,  — 
From  valleys  where  her  slumbering 

fathers  lie,  — 

From  her  blue  rivers  and  her   welling 
fountains, 

And  clear,  cold  sky,  — 

From  her  rough  coast,  and  isles,  which 

hungry  Ocean 
Gnaws  with  his   surges,  —  from  the 

fisher's  skiff, 

"With  white  sail  swaying  to  the  billows' 
motion 

Eound  rock  and  cliff,  — 

From  the  free  fireside  of  her  unbought 

farmer,  — 
From  her  free  laborer  at  his  loom  and 

wheel,  — 

From  the  brown  smith-shop,  where,  be 
neath  the  hammer, 

Rings  the  red  steel,  — 

From  each  and   all,    if  God  hath   not 

forsaken 

Our  land,  and  left  us  to  an  evil  choice, 
Loud  as  the  summer  thunderbolt  shall 
waken 

A  People's  voice. 

Startling  and  stern  !  the  Northern  winds 

shall  bear  it 

Over  Potomac's  to  St.  Mary's  wave  ; 
And    buried   Freedom    shall  awake  to 
hear  it 

Within  her  grave. 

0,  let  that  voice  go  forth  !     The  bond 
man  sighing 
By   Santee's    wave,    in    Mississippi's 

cane, 

Shall  feel  the  hope,  within  his  bosom 
dying, 

Revive  again. 

Let  it  go  forth  !     The  millions  who  are 

gazing 
Sadly  upon  us  from  afar,  shall  smile, 


And    unto    God    devout    thanksgiving 
raising, 

Bless  us  the  while. 

0  for  your   ancient   freedom,  pure   and 

holy, 

For  the  deliverance  of  a  groaning  earth, 
For    the     wronged    captive,    bleeding, 
crushed,  and  lowly, 

Let  it  go  forth  ! 

Sons  of  the  best  of  fathers  !  will  ye  faltei 
With  all  they  left  ye  perilled  and  ai 

stake  ? 

Ho  !  once  again  on  Freedom's  holy  altai 
The  fire  awake  ! 

Prayer-strengthened  for  the  trial,  come 

together, 

Put  on  the  harness  for  the  moral  fight, 
And,  with  the  blessing  of  your  Heav 
enly  Father, 

MAINTAIN  THE  IUGHT  ! 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  CHARTER- 
BREAKERS.^ 

IN  Westminster's  royal  halls, 
Robed  in  their  pontificals, 
England's  ancient  prelates  stood 
For  the  people's  right  and  good. 

Closed  around  the  waiting  crowd, 
Dark  and  still,  like  winter's  cloud  ; 
King  and  council,  lord  and  knight, 
Squire  and  yeoman,  stood  in  sight,  — 

Stood  to  hear  the  priest  rehearse, 
In  God's  name,  the  Church's  curse, 
By  the  tapers  round  them  lit, 
Slowly,  sternly  uttering  it. 

"  Right  of  voice  in  framing  laws, 
Right  of  peers  to  try  each  cause  ; 
Peasant  homestead,  mean  and  small, 
Sacred  as  the  monarch's  hall,  — 

"  Whoso  lays  his  hand  on  these, 
England's  ancient  liberties,  — 
Whoso  breaks,  by  word  or  deed, 
England's  vow  at  Runnymede,  — 

"  Be  he  Prince  or  belted  knight, 
Whatsoe'er  his  rank  or  might, 
If  the  highest,  then  the  worst, 
Let  him  live  and  die  accursed. 


THE   SLAVES   OF   MARTINIQUE. 


77 


"  Thou,  who  to  thy  Church  hast  given 
Keys  alike,  of  hell  and  heaven, 
Make  our  word  and  witness  sure. 
Let  the  curse  we  speak  endure  !  " 

Silent,  while  that  curse  was  said, 
Every  bare  and  listening  head 
Bowed  in  reverent  awe,  and  then 
All  the  people  said,  Amen  ! 

Seven  times  the  bells  have  tolled, 
For  the  centuries  gray  and  old, 
Since  that  stoled  and  mitred  band 
Cursed  the  tyrants  of  their  land. 

Since  the  priesthood,  like  a  tower, 
Stood  between  the  poor  and  power  ; 
And  the  wronged  and  trodden  down 
Blessed  the  abbot's  shaven  crown. 

Gone,  thank  God,  their  wizard  spell, 
Lost,  their  keys  of  heaven  and  hell ; 
Yet  I  sigli  for  men  as  bold 
As  those  bearded  priests  of  old. 

Now,  too  oft  the  priesthood  wait 
At  the  threshold  of  the  state,  — 
Waiting  for  the  beck  and  nod 
Of  its  power  as  law  and  God. 

Fraud  exults,  while  solemn  words 
Sanctify  his  stolen  hoards  ; 
Slavery  laughs,  while  ghostly  lips 
Bless  his  manacles  and  whips. 

Not  on  them  the  poor  rely, 

Not  to  them  looks  liberty, 

Who  with  fawning  falsehood  cower 

To  the  wrong,  when  clothed  with  power. 

O,  to  see  them  meanly  cling, 
Round  the  master,  round  the  king, 
Sported  with,  and  sold  and  bought,  — 
Pitifuller  sight  is  not  ! 

Tell  me  not  that  this  must  be  : 
God's  true  priest  is  always  free  ; 
Free,  the  needed  truth  to  speak, 
Right  the  wronged,  and  raise  the  weak. 

Not  to  fawn  on  wealth  and  state, 
Leaving  Lazarus  at  the  gate,  — 
Not  to  peddle  creeds  like  wares,  — 
Not  to  mutter  hireling  prayers,  — 

Nor  to  paint  the  new  life's  bliss 
On  the  sable  ground  of  this,  — 


Golden  streets  for  idle  knave, 
Sabbath  rest  for  weary  slave  ! 

Not  for  words  and  works  like  these, 
Priest  of  God,  thy  mission  is  ; 
But  to  make  earth's  desert  glad, 
In  its  Eden  greenness  clad  ; 

And  to  level  manhood  bring 
Lord  and  peasant,  serf  and  king  ; 
And  the  Christ  of  God  to  find 
In  the  humblest  of  thy  kind  ! 

Thine  to  work  as  well  as  pray, 
Clearing  thorny  wrongs  away  ; 
Plucking  up  the  weeds  of  sin, 
Letting  heaven's  warm  sunshine  in,  - 

Watching  on  the  hills  of  Faith  ; 
Listening  what  the  spirit  saith, 
Of  the  dim- seen  light  afar, 
Growing  like  a  nearing  star. 

God's  interpreter  art  thou, 
To  the  waiting  ones  below  ; 
Twixt  them  and  its  light  midway 
Heralding  the  better  day,  — 

Catching  gleams  of  temple  spires, 
Hearing  notes  of  angel  choirs, 
Where,  as  yet  unseen  of  them, 
Comes  the  New  Jerusalem  ! 

Like  the  seer  of  Patmos  gazing, 
On  the  glory  downward  blazing  ; 
Till  upon  Earth's  grateful  sod 
Rests  the  City  of  our  God  ! 


THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE. 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  DAGUERREOTYPE  FROM 
A   FRENCH   ENGRAVING. 

BEAMS  of  noon,  like  burning  lances, 
through  the  tree-tops  flash  and 
glisten, 

As  she  stands  before  her  lover,  with  raised 
face  to  look  and  listen. 

Dark,  but  comely,  like  the  maiden  in  the 

ancient  Jewish  song  : 
Scarcely  has  the  toil  of  task-fields  done 

her  graceful  beauty  wrong. 

He,  the  strong  one  and  the  manly,  with 
the  vassal's  garb  and  hue, 


78 


VOICES    OF   FKEEDOM. 


/ 


Holding  still  his  spirit's  birthright,  to 
his  higher  nature  true  ; 

Hiding  deep  the  strengthening  purpose 
of  a  freeman  in  his  heart, 

As  the  greegree  holds  his  Fetich  from 
the  white  man's  gaze  apart. 

Ever  foremost  of  his  comrades,  when  the 

driver's  morning  horn 
Calls  away  to  stifling  mill-house,  to  the 

fields  of  cane  and  corn  : 

Fall  the  keen  and  burning  lashes  never 

on  his  back  or  limb  ; 
Scarce  with  look  or  word  of  censure,  turns 

the  driver  unto  him. 

Yet,  his  brow  is  always  thoughtful,  and 
his  eye  is  hard  and  stern  ; 

Slavery's  last  and  humblest  lesson  he  has 
never  deigned  to  learn. 

And,  at  evening,  when  his  comrades 
dance  before  their  master's  door, 

Folding  arms  and  knitting  forehead, 
stands  he  silent  evermore. 

God  be  praised  for  every  instinct  which 

rebels  against  a  lot 
Where  the  brute  survives  the  human,  and 

man's  upright  form  is  not  ! 

As  the   serpent-like  bejuco  winds  his 

spiral  fold  on  fold 
Round  the  tall  and  stately  ceiba,  till  it 

withers  in  his  hold  ;  — 

Slow  decays  the  forest  monarch,  closer 

girds  the  fell  embrace, 
Till  the  tree  is  seen  no  longer,  and  the 

vine  is  in  its  place,  — 

So  a  base  and  bestial  nature  round  the 
vassal's  manhood  twines, 

And  the  spirit  wastes  beneath  it,  like  the 
ceiba  choked  with  vines. 

God  is  Love,  saith  the  Evangel ;  and  our 

world  of  woe  and  sin 
Is  made  light  and  happy  only  when  a 

Love  is  shining  in. 

Ye  whose  lives  are  free  as  sunshine,  find 
ing,  wheresoe'er  ye  roam, 

Smiles  of  welcome,  looks  of  kindness, 
making  all  the  world  like  home  ; 


In  the  veins  of  whose  affections  kindred 

blood  is  but  a  part, 
Of  one  kindly  current  throbbing  from  t\.t 

universal  heart  ; 

Can  ye  know  the  deeper  meaning  of  a 

love  in  Slavery  nursed, 
Last  flower  of  a  lost  Eden,  blooming  in 

that  Soil  accursed  ? 

Love  of  Home,  and  Love  of  Woman  !  — 
dear  to  all,  but  doubly  dear 

To  the  heart  whose  pulses  elsewhere 
measure  only  hate  and  fear. 

All  around  the  desert  circles,  underneath 

a  brazen  sky, 
Only  one  green  spot  remaining  where  the 

dew  is  never  dry  ! 

From  the  horror  of  that  desert,  from  its 

atmosphere  of  hell, 
Turns  the  fainting  spirit  thither,  as  the 

diver  seeks  his  bell. 

'T  is  the  fervid  tropic  noontime  ;  faint 
and  low  the  sea- waves  beat  ; 

Hazy  rise  the  inland  mountains  through 
the  glimmer  of  the  heat,  — 

Where,  through  mingled  leaves  and  blos 
soms,  arrowy  sunbeams  flash  and 
glisten, 

Speaks  her  lover  to  the  slave-girl,  and  she 
lifts  her  head  to  listen  :  — 

"We   shall  live   as   slaves  no   longer! 

Freedom's  hour  is  close  at  hand  ! 
Rocks  her  bark  upon  the  waters,  rests  the 

boat  upon  the  strand  ! 

"  I  have  seen  the  Haytien  Captain  ;  1 
have  seen  his  swarthy  crew, 

Haters  of  the  pallid  faces,  to  their  race 
and  color  true. 

"They  have  sworn  to  wait  our  coming 
till  the  night  has  passed  its  noon, 

And  the  gray  and  darkening  waters  roll 
above  the  sunken  moon  !  " 

0  the  blessed  hope  of  freedom  !  how  with 

joy  and  glad  surprise, 
For  an  instant  throbs  her  bosom,  for  an 

instant  beam  her  eyes  I 


THE   CRISIS. 


79 


But  she  looks  across  the  valley,  where 
her  mother's  hut  is  seen, 

Through  the  snowy  bloom  of  coffee,  and 
the  lemon-leaves  so  green. 

And  she  answers,  sad  and  earnest  :  "  It 
were  wrong  for  thee  to  stay  ; 

God  hath  heard  thy  prayer  for  freedom, 
and  his  finger  points  the  way. 

"  Well  I  know  with  what  endurance,  for 
the  sake  of  me  and  mine, 

Thou  hast  borne  too  long  a  burden  never 
meant  for  souls  like  thine. 

"  Go  ;  and  at  the  hour  of  midnight,  when 

our  last  farewell  is  o'er. 
Kneeling  on  our  place  of  parting,  I  will 

bless  thee  from  the  shore. 

"  But  for  me,  my  mother,  lying  on  her 

sick-bed  all  the  day, 
Lifts  her  weary  head  to  watch  me,  coming 

through  the  twilight  gray. 

' '  Should  I  leave  her  sick  and  helpless,  even 
freedom,  shared  with  thee, 

Would  be  sadder  far  than  bondage,  lonely 
toil,  and  stripes  to  me. 

"  For  my  heart  would  die  within  me,  and 
my  brain  would  soon  be  wild  ; 

I  should  hear  my  mother  calling  through 
the  twilight  for  her  child  !  " 

Blazing  upward  from  the  ocean,  shines 
the  sim  of  morning-time, 

Through  the  coffee-trees  in  blossom,  and 
green  hedges  of  the  lime. 

Side  by  side,  amidst  the  slave-gang,  toil 
the  lover  and  the  maid  ; 

Wherefore  looks  he  o'er  the  waters,  lean 
ing  forward  on  his  spade  ? 

Sadly  looks  he,  deeply  sighs  he  :  't  is  the 

Haytien's  sail  he  sees, 
Like  a  white   cloud  of  the  mountains, 

driven  seaward  by  the  breeze  ! 

But  his  arm  a  light  hand  presses,  and  he 

hears  a  low  voice  call  : 
Hate  of  Slavery,  hope  of  Freedom,  Love 

is  mightier  than  all. 


THE  CRISIS. 

WRITTEN   ON   LEARNING   THE   TERMS    OF 
THE   TREATY   WITH   MEXICO. 

ACROSS  the  Stony  Mountains,  o'er  the 
desert's  drouth  and  sand, 

The  circles  of  our  empire  touch  the  West 
ern  Ocean's  strand  ; 

From  slumberous  Timpanogos,  to  Gila, 
wild  and  free, 

Flowing  down  from  Nuevo-Leon  to  Cali 
fornia's  sea  ; 

And  from  the  mountains  of  the  East,  to 
Santa  Rosa's  shore, 

The  eagles  of  Mexitli  shall  beat  the  air 
no  more. 

0  Vale  of  Rio  Bravo  !     Let  thy  simple 

children  weep  ; 
Close  watch  about  their  holy  fire  let  maids 

of  Pecos  keep  ; 
Let  Taos  send  her  cry  across  Sierra  Madre's 

pines, 
And  Algodones  toll  her  bells  amidst  her 

corn  and  vines  ; 
For  lo  !  the  pale  land-seekers  come,  with 

eager  eyes  of  gain, 
Wide  scattering,  like  the  bison  herds  on 

broad  Salada's  plain. 

Let  Sacramento's   herdsmen  heed  what 

sound  the  winds  bring  down 
Of  footsteps  on  the  crisping  snow,  from 

cold  Nevada's  crown  ! 
Full  hot  and  fast  the  Saxon  rides,  with 

rein  of  travel  slack, 
And,  bending  o'er  his  saddle,  leaves  the 

sunrise  at  his  back  ; 
By  many  a  lonely  river,  and  gorge  of  fir 

and  pine, 
On  many  a  wintry  hill-top,  his  nightly 

camp-fires  shine. 

0  countrymen  and  brothers  !  that  land 
of  lake  and  plain, 

Of  salt  wastes  alternating  with  valleys 
fat  with  grain  ; 

Of  mountains  white  with  winter,  looking 
downward,  cold,  serene, 

On  their  feet  with  spring- vines  tangled 
and  lapped  in  softest  green  ; 

Swift  through  whose  black  volcanic  gates, 
o'er  many  a  sunny  vale, 

Wind-like  the  Arapahoe  sweeps  the  bi 
son's  dusty  trail  ! 


80 


VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


Great  spaces  yet  untravelled,  great  lakes 

whose  mystic  shores 
The  Saxon  rifle  never  heard,  nor  dip  of 

Saxon  oars  ; 
Great  herds  that  wander  all  unwatched, 

wild  steeds  that  none  have  tamed, 
Strange   fish   in  unknown  streams,  and 

birds  the  Saxon  never  named  ; 
Deep   mines,  dark  mountain  crucibles, 

where  Nature's  chemic  powers 
Work  out  the  Great  Designer's  will  ;  — 

all  these  ye  say  are  ours  ! 

Forever  ours  !  for  good  or  ill,  on  us  the 

burden  lies  ; 
God's  balance,  watched  by  angels,  is  hung 

across  the  skies. 
Shall  Justice,  Truth,  and  Freedom  turn 

the  poised  and  trembling  scale  ? 
Or  shall  the  Evil   triumph,  and  robber 

Wrong  prevail  ? 
Shall  the  broad  land  o'er  which  our  flag 

in  starry  splendor  waves, 
Forego  through  us  its  freedom,  and  bear 

the  tread  of  slaves  ? 

The  day  is  breaking  in  the  East  of  which 

the  prophets  told, 
A.nd  brightens  up  the  sky  of  Time  the 

Christian  Age  of  Gold  ; 
Old  Might  to  Right  is  yielding,  battle 

blade  to  clerkly  pen, 
Earth's  monarchs  are  her  peoples,  and 

her  serfs  stand  up  as  men  ; 
The  isles  rejoice  together,  in  a  day  are 

nations  born, 
And  the  slave  walks  free  in  Tunis,  and 

by  Stamboul's  Golden  Horn  ! 

Is  this,  0  countrymen  of  mine  !  a  day  for 

us  to  sow 
The    soil    of   new-gained   empire  with 

slavery's  seeds  of  woe  ? 
To  feed  with  our  fresh  life-blood  the  Old 

World's  cast-off  crime, 
Dropped,  like  some  monstrous  early  birth, 

from  the  tired  lap  of  Time  ? 
To  run  anew  the  evil  race  the  old  lost 

nations  ran, 
And  die  like  them  of  unbelief  of  God,  and 

wrong  of  man  ? 


Great  Heaven  !      Is  this  our  mission  ? 

End  in  this  the  prayers  and  tears, 
The  toil,  the  strife,  the  watchings  of  our 

younger,  better  years  ? 
Still  as  the  Old  World  rolls  in  light,  shall 

ours  in  shadow  turn, 
A  beamless  Chaos,  cursed  of  God,  through 

outer  darkness  borne  ? 
Where  the  far  nations  looked  for  light,  a 

blackness  in  the  air  ? 
Where  for  words  of  hope  they  listened 

the  long  wail  of  despair  ? 

The  Crisis  presses  on  us  ;  face  to  f^cw 

with  us  it  stands, 
With  solemn  lips  of  question,  like  the 

Sphinx  in  Egypt's  sands  ! 
This  day  we  fashion  Destiny,  our  web 

of  Fate  we  spin  ; 
This   day   for  all   hereafter   choose  we 

holiness  or  sin  ; 
Even  now  from  starry  Gerizim,  or  Ebal's 

cloudy  crown, 
We  call  the  dews  of  blessing  or  the  bolts 

of  cursing  down  ! 

By  all  for  which  the  martyrs  bore  their 

agony  and  shame  ; 
By  all  the  warning  words  of  truth  with 

which  the  prophets  came  ; 
By  the  Future  which  awaits  us  ;  by  all 

the  hopes  which  cast 
Their  faint  and  trembling  beams  across 

the  blackness  of  the  Past ; 
And  by  the  blessed  thought  of  Him  who 

for  Earth's  freedom  died, 
0  my  people  !    0  my  brothers  !   let  us 

choose  the  righteous  side. 

So  shall  the  Northern  pioneer  go  joyful 
on  his  way  ; 

To  wed  Penobscot's  waters  to  San  Fran 
cisco's  bay  ; 

To  make  the  rugged  places  smooth,  and 
sow  the  vales  with  grain  ; 

And  bear,  with  Liberty  and  Law,  the 
Bible  in  his  train  : 

The  mighty  West  shall  bless  the  East, 
and  sea  shall  answer  sea, 

And  mountain  unto  mountain  call, 
PRAISE  GOD,  FOR  WE  ARE  FREE  ! 


THE  HOLY  LAND. 


81 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  KNIGHT  OF   ST.   JOHN. 

ERE  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hills 

The  sun  shall  sink  again, 
Farewell  to  life  and  all  its  ills, 

Farewell  to  cell  and  chain. 

These  prison  shades  are  dark  and  cold,  — 

But,  darker  far  than  they, 
The  shadow  of  a  sorrow  old 

Is  on  my  heart  alway. 

For  since  the  day  when  Warkworth  wood 

Closed  o'er  my  steed  and  I, 
An  alien  from  my  name  and  blood, 

A  weed  cast  out  to  die,  — 

When,  looking  back  in  sunset  light, 

I  saw  her  turret  gleam, 
And  from  its  casement,  far  and  white, 

Her  sign  of  farewell  stream, 

Like  one  who,  from  some  desert  shore, 
Doth  home's  green  isles  descry, 

And,  vainly  longing,  gazes  o'er 
The  waste  of  wave  and  sky  ; 

So  from  the  desert  of  my  fate 

I  gaze  across  the  past  ; 
Forever  on  life's  dial -plate 

The  shade  is  backward  cast  ! 

I  've  wandered  wide  from  shore  to  shore, 
I  've  knelt  at  many  a  shrine  ; 

And  bowed  me  to  the  rocky  floor 
Where  Bethlehem's  tapers  shine  ; 

And  by  the  Holy  Sepulchre 

I  've  pledged  my  knightly  sword 

To  Christ,  his  blessed  Church,  and  her, 
The  Mother  of  our  Lord. 

0,  vain  the  vow,  and  vain  the  strife  ! 

How  vain  do  all  things  seem  ! 
My  soul  is  in  the  past,  and  life 

To-day  is  but  a  dream  ! 

In  vain  the  penance  strange  and  long, 

And  hard  for  flesh  to  bear  ; 
The  prayer,  the  fasting,  and  the  thong 

And  sackcloth  shirt  of  hair. 
6 


The  eyes  of  memory  will  not  sleep,- 

Its  ears  are  open  still  ; 
And  vigils  with  the  past  they  keep 

Against  my  feeble  will. 

And  still  the  loves  and  joys  of  old 

Do  evermore  uprise  ; 
I  see  the  flow  of  locks  of  gold, 

The  shine  of  loving  eyes  ! 

Ah  me  !  upon  another's  breast 

Those  golden  locks  recline  ; 
I  see  upon  another  rest 

The  glance  that  once  was  mine. 

'  '  0  faithless  priest  !   0  perjured  kiliglit  !  " 

I  hear  the  Master  cry  ; 
'  '  Shut  out  the  vision  from  thy  sight, 

Let  Earth  and  Nature  die. 

"  The  Church  of  God  is  now  thy  spouse, 
And  thou  the  bridegroom  art  ', 

Then  let  the  burden  of  thy  vows 
Crush  down  thy  human  heart  ! 


In   vain  !     This    heart   its   grief 
know, 

Till  life  itself  hath  ceased, 
And  falls  beneath  the  self-same  blov 

The  lover  and  the  priest  ! 

0  pitying  Mother  !  souls  of  light, 
And  saints,  and  martyrs  old  ! 

Pray  for  a  weak  and  sinful  knightj 
A  suffering  man  uphold. 

Then  let  the  Paynim  work  his  willf 
And  death  unbind  my  chain, 

Ere  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hill 
The  sun  shall  fall  again. 


THE  HOLY  LAND. 

FROM   LAMAIITINE. 

I  HAVE  not  felt,  o'er  seas  of  sand, 
The  rocking  of  the  desert  bark  ; 

Nor  laved  at  Hebron's  fount  my  hand, 
By    Hebron's    palm-trees    cool    and 
dark  ; 


82 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Nor  pitched  my  tent  at  even-fall, 
On  dust  where  Job  of  old  has  lain, 

Nor  dreamed  beneath  its  canvas  wall, 
The  dream  of  Jacob  o'er  again. 

One  vast  world-page  remains  unread  ; 

How   shine   the    stars   in    Chaldea's 

sky, 
How  sounds  the  reverent  pilgrim's  tread, 

How  beats  the  heart  with   God  so 

nigh  !  — 
How  round  gray  arch  and  column  lone 

The  spirit  of  the  old  time  broods, 
And  sighs  in  all  the  winds  that  moan 

Along  the  sandy  solitudes  ! 

In  thy  tall  cedars,  Lebanon, 

1  have  not  heard  the  nations'  cries, 
Nor  seen  thy  eagles  stooping  down 

Where  buried  Tyre  in  ruin  lies. 
The  Christian's  prayer  I  have  not  said 

In  Tadmor's  temples  of  decay, 
Nor  startled,  with  my  dreary  tread, 

The  waste  where  Memnon's  empire  lay. 

Nor  have  I,  from  thy  hallowed  tide, 

0  Jordan  !  heard  the  low  lament, 
Like  that  sad  wail  along  thy  side 

Which  Israel's  mournful  prophet  sent ! 
Nor  thrilled  within  that  grotto  lone 

Where,    deep  in   night,  the    Bard  of 

Kings 
Felt  hands  of  fire  direct  his  own, 

And    sweep   for   God    the    conscious 
strings. 

I  have  not  climbed  to  Olivet, 

Nor  laid  me  where  my  Saviour  lay, 
And  left  his  trace  of  tears  as  yet 

By  angel  eyes  unwept  away  ; 
Nor  watched,  at  midnight's  solemn  time, 

The    garden  where   his    prayer    and 

groan, 
Wrung  by  his  sorrow  and  our  crime, 

Rose  to  One  listening  ear  alone. 

I  have  not  kissed  the  rock-hewn  grot 
Where  in  his  Mother's  arms  he  lay, 
Nor  knelt  upon  the  sacred  spot 

Where  last  his  footsteps  pressed  the 

clay  ; 

Nor  looked  on  that  sad  mountain  head, 
Nor   smote   my  sinful  breast,  where 

wide 

His  arms  to  fold  the  world  he  spread, 
And  bowed  his  head  to  bless  —  and 
diedl 


PALESTINE. 

BLEST  land  of  Judsea  !  thrice  hallowed 
of  song, 

Where  the  holiest  of  memories  pilgrim- 
like  throng  ; 

In  the  shade  of  thy  palms,  by  the  shores 
of  thy  sea, 

On  the  hills  of  thy  beauty,  my  heart  is 
with  thee. 

With  the  eye  of  a  spirit  I  look  on  that 
shore, 

Where  pilgrim  and  prophet  hare  lin 
gered  before  ; 

With  the  glide  of  a  spirit  I  traverse  the 
sod 

Made  bright  by  the  steps  of  the  angels 
of  God. 

Blue  sea  of  the  hills  !  —  in  my  spirit  I 
hear 

Thy  waters,  Genesaret,  chime  on  my  ear ; 

Where  the  Lowly  and  Just  with  the  peo 
ple  sat  down, 

And  thy  spray  on  the  dust  of  his  san 
dals  was  thrown. 

Beyond    arc    Bethulia's    mountains    of 

green, 
And  the  desolate  hills  of  the  wild  Gad- 

areue  ; 
And  I  pause  on  the  goat-crags  of  Tabor 

to  see 
The  gleam  of  thy  waters,  0  dark  Galilee  ! 

Hark,  a  sound  in  the  valley  !  where, 
swollen  and  strong, 

Thy  river,  0  Kishon,  is  sweeping  along  ; 

Where  the  Canaanite  strove  with  Je 
hovah  in  vain, 

And  thy  torrent  grew  dark  with  the 
blood  of  the  slain. 

There  down  from  his  mountains  stern 
Zebulon  came, 

And  Naphtali's  stag,  with  his  eyeballs 
of  flame, 

And  the  chariots  of  Jabin  rolled  harm 
lessly  on, 

For  the  arm  of  the  Lord  was  Abinoam's 
son  ! 

There  sleep  the  still  rocks  and  the  cav 
erns  which  rang 

To  the  song  which  the  beautiful  proph 
etess  sang, 


EZEKIEL. 


83 


When  the  princes  of  Issachar  stood  by 

her  side, 
And  the  shout  of  a  host  in  its  triumph 

replied. 

Lo,  Bethlehem's   hill-site   before  me  is 

seen, 
With  the  mountains  around,   and  the 

valleys  between  ; 
There  rested  the  shepherds  of  Judah, 

and  there 
The  song  of  the  angels  rose  sweet  on 

the  air. 

And  Bethany's  palm-trees  in  beauty  still 

throw 
Their  shadows  at  noon    on  the  ruins 

below  ; 
But  where  are  the  sisters  who  hastened 

to  greet 
The  lowly  Redeemer,  and  sit  at  his  feet  ? 

I  tread  where  the  TWELVE  in  their  way 
faring  trod  ; 

1  stand  where  they  stood  with  the 
CHOSEN  OF  GOD,  — 

Where  his  blessing  was  heard  and  his 
lessons  were  taught, 

Where  the  blind  were  restored  and  the 
healing  was  wrought. 

0,  here  with  his  flock  the  sad  Wanderer 
came,  — 

These  hills  he  toiled  over  in  grief  are 
the  same,  — 

The  founts  where  he  drank  by  the  way 
side  still  flow, 

And  the  same  airs  are  blowing  which 
breathed  on  his  brow  ! 

And  throned  on  her  hills  sits  Jerusalem 

yet, 

But  with  dust  on    her  forehead,   and 

chains  on  her  feet ; 
For  the  crown  of  her  pride  to  the  mocker 

hath  gone, 
And  the  holy  Shechinah  is  dark  where 

it  shone. 

But  wherefore  this  dream  of  the  earthly 

abode 
Of  Humanity  clothed  in  the  brightness 

of  God  ? 
Were  my  spirit  but    turned  from  the 

outward  and  dim, 
It  could  gaze,  even  now,  on  the  presence 

of  Him  ! 


Not  in  clouds  and  in  terrors,  but  gentle 

as  when, 
In   love  and  in  meekness,   He  moved 

among  men  ; 
And  the  voice  which  breathed  peace  to 

the  waves  of  the  sea 
In  the  hush  of  my  spirit  would  whisper 

to  me  ! 

And  what  if  my  feet  may  not  tread 
where  He  stood, 

Nor  my  ears  hear  the  dashing  of  Gal 
ilee's  flood, 

Nor  my  eyes  see  the  cross  which  He 
bowed  him  to  bear, 

Nor  my  knees  press  Gethsemane's  gar 
den  of  prayer. 

Yet,  Loved  of  the  Father,  thy  Spirit  is 
near 

To  the  meek,  and  the  lowly,  and  peni 
tent  here  ; 

And  the  voice  of  thy  love  is  the  same 
even  now 

As  at  Bethany's  tomb  or  on  Olivet's 
brow. 

0,   the  outward   hath  gone  !  —  but  in 

glory  and  power, 
The  spntiT  surviveth  the  things  of  an 

hour ; 
Unchanged,    undecaying,    its  Pentecost 

flame 
On   the  heart's  secret  altar  is  burning 

the  same  ! 


EZEKIEL. 

CHAPTER  XXXIII.    30-33. 

THEY  hear  thee  not,  0  God  !  nor  see  ; 
Beneath  thy  rod  they  mock  at  thee  ; 
The  princes  of  our  ancient  line 
Lie  drunken  with  Assyrian  wine  ; 
The  priests  around  thy  altar  speak 
The  false  words  which  their  hearers  seek  ; 
And    hymns   which   Chaldea's    wanton 

maids 

Have  sung  in  Dura's  idol-shades 
Are  with  the  Levites'  chant  ascending, 
With  Zion's  holiest  anthems  blending  ! 

On  Israel's  bleeding  bosom  set, 
The  heathen  heel  is  crushing  yet ; 
The  towers  upon  our  holy  hill 
Echo  Chaldean  footsteps  still. 


84 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Our  wasted  shrines,  —  who  weeps  for 

them  ? 

Who  mourneth  for  Jerusalem  ? 
Who  turneth  from  his  gains  away  ? 
Whose  knee  with  mine  is  bowed  to  pray  ? 
Who,  leaving  feast  and  purpling  cup, 
Takes  Zion's  lamentation  up  ? 

A  sad  and  thoughtful  youth,  I  went 
With  Israel's  early  banishment  ; 
And  where  the  sullen  Chebar  crept, 
The  ritual  of  my  fathers  kept. 
The  water  for  the  trench  I  drew, 
The  firstling  of  the  flock  I  slew, 
And,  standing  at  the  altar's  side, 
I  shared  the  Levites'  lingering  pride, 
That  still,  amidst  her  mocking  foes, 
The  smoke  of  Zion's  offering  rose. 

In  sudden  whirlwind,  cloud  and  flame, 
The  Spirit  of  the  Highest  came  ! 
Before  mine  eyes  a  vision  passed, 
A  glory  terrible  and  vast  ; 
With  dreadful  eyes  of  living  things, 
And  sounding  sweep  of  angel  wings, 
With  circling  light  and  sapphire  throne, 
And  flame-like  form  of  One  thereon, 
And  voice  of  that  dread  Likeness  sent 
Down  from  the  crystal  firmament  ! 

The  burden  of  a  prophet's  power 
Fell  on  me  in  that  fearful  hour  ; 
From  off  unutterable  woes 
The  curtain  of  the  future  rose  ; 
I  saw  far  down  the  coming  time 
The  fiery  chastisement  of  grime  ; 
With  noise  of  mingling  hosts,  and  jar 
Of  falling  towers  and  shouts  of  war, 
I  saw  the  nations  rise  and  fall, 
Like  fire-gleams   on   my   tent's    white 
wall. 

In  dream  and  trance,  I  saw  the  slain 
Of  Egypt  heaped  like  harvest  grain. 
I  saw  the  walls  of  sea-born  Tyre 
Swept  over  by  the  spoiler's  fire  ; 
And  heard  the  low,  expiring  moan 
Of  Edom  on  his  rocky  throne  ; 
And,  woe  is  me  !  the  wild  lament 
From  Zion's  desolation  sent  ; 
And  felt  within  my  heart  each  blow 
Which  laid  her  holy  places  low. 

In  bonds  and  sorrow,  day  by  day, 
Before  the  pictured  tile  I  lay  ; 
And  there,  as  in  a  mirror,  saw 
The  coming  of  Assyria's  war,  — 


Her  swarthy  lines  of  spearmen  pass 
Like  locusts  through  Bethhoron's  grass  > 
I  saw  them  draw  their  stormy  hem 
Of  battle  round  Jerusalem  ; 
And,  listening,  heard  the  Hebrew  wail 
Blend  with  the  victor- trump  of  Baal  ! 

Who  trembled  at  my  warning  word  ? 
Who  owned  the  prophet  of  the  Lord  ? 
How  mocked  the  rude,  —  how  scoffed 

the  vile,  — 

How  stung  the  Levites'  scornful  smile, 
As  o'er  my  spirit,  dark  and  slow, 
The  shadow  crept  of  Israel's  woe 
As  if  the  angel's  mournful  roll 
Had  left  its  record  on  my  soul, 
And  traced  in  lines  of  darkness  there 
The  picture  of  its  great  despair  ! 

Yet  ever  at  the  hour  I  feel 
My  lips  in  prophecy  imseal. 
Prince,  priest,  and  Levite  gather  near, 
And  Salem's  daughters  haste  to  hear, 
On  Chebar's  waste  and  alien  shore, 
The  harp  of  Judah  swept  once  more. 
They  listen,  as  in  Babel's  throng 
The  Chaldeans  to  the  dancer's  song, 
Or  wild  sabbeka's  nightly  play, 
As  careless  and  as  vain  as  they. 


And  thus,  0  Prophet-bard  of  old, 
Hast  thou  thy  tale  of  sorrow  told  ! 
The  same  which  earth's  unwelcome  seers 
Have  felt  in  all  succeeding  years. 
Sport  of  the  changeful  multitude, 
Nor  calmly  heard  nor  understood, 
Their  song  has  seemed  a  trick  of  art, 
Their  warnings  but  the  actor's  part. 
With  bonds,  and  scorn,  and  evil  will, 
The  world  requites  its  prophets  still. 

So  was  it  when  the  Holy  One 
The  garments  of  the  flesh  put  on  ! 
Men  followed  where  the  Highest  led 
For  common  gifts  of  daily  bread, 
And  gross  of  ear,  of  vision  dim, 
Owned  not  the  godlike  power  of  him. 
Vain  as  a  dreamer's  words  to  them 
His  wail  above  Jerusalem, 
And  meaningless  the  watch  he  kept 
Through  which  his  weak  disciples  slept 

Yet  shrink  not  thou,  whoe'er  thou  art, 
For  God's  great  purpose  set  apart, 
Before  whose  far-discerning  eyes, 
The  Future  as  the  Present  lies  ! 


THE  WIFE   OF  MANOAH  TO   HER   HUSBAND. 


85 


Beyond  a  narrow-bounded  age 
Stretches  thy  prophet-heritage, 
Through  Heaven's  dim  spaces  angel-trod, 
Through   arches   round    the    throne   of 

God! 

Thy  audience,  worlds  !  —  all  Time  to  be 
The  witness  of  the  Truth  in  thee  ! 


THE  WIFE  OF  MANOAH  TO 
HUSBAND. 


HER 


AGAINST  the  sunset's  glowing  wall 
The  city  towers  rise  black  and  tall, 
Where  Zorah,  on  its  rocky  height, 
Stands  like  an  armed  man  in  the  light. 

Down  Eshtaol's  vales  of  ripened  grain 
Falls  like  a  cloud  the  night  amain, 
And  up  the  hillsides  climbing  slow 
The  barley  reapers  homeward  go. 

Look,  dearest  !  how  our  fair  child's  head 
The  sunset  light  hath  hallowed, 
Where  at  this  olive's  foot  he  lies, 
Uplooking  to  the  tranquil  skies. 

0,  while  beneath  the  fervent  heat 
Thy  sickle  swept  the  bearded  wheat, 
I  've   watched,    with  mingled   joy  and 

dread, 
Our  child  upon  his  grassy  bed. 


Joy,  which  the  mother  feels  alone 
Whose  morning  hope    like    mine 

flown, 

When  to  her  bosom,  over-blessed, 
A.  dearer  life  than  hers  is  pressed. 


had 


Dread,  for  the  future  dark  and  still, 
Which  shapes  our  dear  one  to  its  will ; 
Forever  in  his  large  calm  eyes, 
I  read  a  tale  of  sacrifice.  — 

The  same  foreboding  awe  I  felt 
When  at  the  altar's  side  we  knelt, 
And  he,  who  as  a  pilgrim  came, 
Rose,  winged  and  glorious,  through  the 
flame. 

I  slept  not,  though  the  wild  bees  made 
A  dreamlike  murmuring  in  the  shade, 
And  on  me  the  warm-fingered  hours 
Pressed  with  the  drowsy  smell  of  flowers. 

Before  me,  in  a  vision,  rose 

The  hosts  of  Israel's  scornful  foes,  — 


Rank  over  rank,  helm,  shield,  and  spear, 
Glittered  in  noon's  hot  atmosphere. 

I  heard  their  boast,  and  bitter  word, 
Their  mockery  of  the  Hebrew's  Lord, 
I  saw  their  hands  his  ark  assail, 
Their  feet  profane  his  holy  veil. 

No  angel  down  the  blue  space  spoke, 
No  thunder  from  the  still  sky  broke  ; 
But  in  their  midst,  in  power  and  awe, 
Like  God's  waked  wrath,  OUR  CHILD  1 
saw  ! 

A  child  no  more  !  —  harsh-browed  and 

strong, 

He  towered  a  giant  in  the  throng, 
And  down  his  shoulders,  broad  and  bare, 
Swept  the  black  terror  of  his  hair. 

He  raised  his  arm  ;  he  smote  amain  ; 
As  round  the  reaper  falls  the  grain, 
So  the  dark  host  around  Mm  fell, 
So  sank  the  foes  of  Israel ! 

Again  I  looked.     In  sunlight  shone 
The  towers  and  domes  of  Askelon. 
Priest,  warrior,  slave,  a  mighty  crowd, 
Within  her  idol  temple  bowed. 

Yet  one  knelt  not  ;  stark,    gaunt,  and 

blind, 

His  arms  the  massive  pillars  twined,  — 
An  eyeless  captive,  strong  with  hate, 
He  stood  there  like  an  evil  Fate. 

The  red  shrines  smoked,  —  the  trumpets 

pealed  : 
He     stooped,   —  the     giant     columns 

reeled,  — 
Reeled  tower  and  fane,  sank  arch  and 

wall, 
And  the  thick  dust-cloud  closed    o'er 

all! 

Above  the  shriek,  the  crash,  the  groan 
Of  the  fallen  pride  of  Askelon, 
I  heard,  sheer  down  the  echoing  sky, 
A  voice  as  of  an  angel  cry,  — 

The  voice  of  him,  who  at  our  side 
Sat  through  the  golden  eventide,  — 
Of  him  who,  on  thy  altar's  blaze, 
Rose  fire-winged,  with  his  song  of  praise. 

"  Rejoice  o'er  Israel's  broken  chain, 
/  Gray  mother  of  the  mighty  slain  1 


86 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Eejoice  !"  it  cried,  "lie  vanquisheth  ! 
The  strong  in  life  is  strong  in  death  ! 

"  To  him  shall  Zorah's  daughters  raise 
Through  coming  years  their  hymns  of 

praise, 

And  gray  old  men  at  evening  tell 
Of  all  he  wrought  for  Israel. 

"And  they  who  sing  and   they  who 

hear 

Alike  shall  hold  thy  memory  dear, 
And  pour  their  blessings  on  thy  head, 

0  mother  of  the  mighty  dead  !  " 

It  ceased  ;  and  though  a  sound  I  heard 
As  if  great  wings  the  still  air  stirred, 

1  only  saw  the  barley  sheaves 
And  hills  half  hid  by  olive  leaves. 

I  bowed  my  face,  in  awe  and  fear, 

On  the  dear  child  who  slumbered  near. 

"  With  me,  as  with  my  only  son, 

0  God,"  I  said,  "THY  WILL  BE  DONE  ! " 


THE   CITIES   OF   THE   PLAIN. 

"GET  ye  up  from  the  wrath  of  God's 
terrible  day  ! 

Ungirded,  unsandalled,  arise  and  away  ! 

'T  is  the  vintage  of  blood,  't  is  the  ful 
ness  of  time, 

And  vengeance  shall  gather  the  harvest 
of  crime  ! " 

The  warning  was  spoken  ;  the  righteous 

had  gone, 
And  the   proud   ones   of    Sodom    were 

feasting  alone  ; 
All  gay  was  the  banquet  ;  the  revel  was 

long, 
With   the    pouring    of    wine    and   the 

breathing  of  song. 

'T  was  an  evening  of  beauty  ;  the  air  was 

perfume, 
The  earth   was  all  greenness,  the  trees 

were  all  bloom  ; 

And  softly  the  delicate  viol  was  heard, 
Like  the  murmur  of  love  or  the  notes  of 

a  bird. 

And  beautiful  maidens  moved  down  in 

the  dance, 
With  the  magic  of  motion  and  sunshine 

<af  glance  ; 


And  white  arms  wreathed  lightly,  a^4 

tresses  fell  free 
As  the  plumage  of  birds  in  some  tropical 

tree. 

Where  the   shrines  of  foul  idols  were 

lighted  on  high, 
And  wantonness  tempted  the  lust  of  the 

eye  ; 
Midst    rites    of    obsceneness,    strange, 

loathsome,  abhorred, 
The  blasphemer  scoffed  at  the  name  of 

the  Lord. 

Hark  !  the  growl  of  the  thunder,  —  the 

quaking  of  earth  ! 
Woe,  woe  to  the   worship,  and   woe  to 

the  mirth  ! 
The   black   sky   has   opened,  —  there  's 

flame  in  the  air,  — 
The  red  arm  of  vengeance  is  lifted  and 

bare! 

Then  the  shriek  of  the  dying  rose  wild 
where  the  song 

And  the  low  tone  of  love  had  been  whis 
pered  along  ; 

For  the  fierce  flames  went  lightly  o'er 
palace  and  bower, 

Like  the  red  tongues  of  demons,  to  blast 
and  devour  ! 

Down,  —  down   on   the   fallen   the   red 

ruin  rained, 
And  the  reveller  sank  with  his  wine-cup 

undrained  ; 
The  foot  of  the  dancer,  the  music's  loved 

thrill, 
And   the  shout  and   the  laughter  gre\r 

suddenly  still. 

The  last  throb  of  anguish  was  fearfully 

given  ; 
The  last  eye  glared  forth  in  its  madness 

on  Heaven  ! 
The  last  groan  of  horror  rose  wildly  and 

vain, 
And  death  brooded  over  the  pride  of  the 

Plain  ! 


THE  CRUCIFIXION. 

SUNLIGHT  upon  Judaea's  hills  ! 

And  on  the  waves  of  Galilee,  — 
On  Jordan's  stream,  and  on  the  rills 

That  feed  the  dead  and  sleeping  sea  ! 


THE    STAR   OF   BETHLEHEM. 


87 


Most  freshly  from  the  green  wood  springs 
The  light  breeze  on  its  scented  wings  ; 
And  gayly  quiver  in  the  sun 
The  cedar  tops  of  Lebanon  ! 

A  few    more   hours,  —  a   change   hath 

come  ! 

The  sky  is  dark  without  a  cloud  ! 
The  shouts  of  wrath  and  joy  are  dumb, 
And    proud    knees    unto    earth    are 

bowed. 

A  change  is  on  the  hill  of  Death, 
The  helmed  watchers  pant  for  breath, 
And  turn  with  wild  and  maniac  eyes 
From  the  dark  scene  of  sacrifice  ! 

That  Sacrifice  !  —  the  death  of  Him,  — 

The  High  and  ever  Holy  One  ! 
Well  may  the   conscious  Heaven  grow 

dim, 

And  blacken  the  beholding  Sun. 
The  wonted  light  hath  fled  away, 
Night  settles  on  the  middle  day, 
And  earthquake  from  his  caverncd  bed 
Is  waking  with  a  thrill  of  dread  ! 

The  dead  are  waking  underneath  ! 

Their  prison  door  is  rent  away  ! 
And,  ghastly  with  the  seal  of  death, 

They  wander  in  the  eye  of  day  ! 
The  temple  of  the  Cherubim, 
The  House  of  God  is  cold  and  dim  ; 
A  curse  is  on  its  trembling  walls, 
Its  mighty  veil  asunder  falls  ! 

Well  may  the  cavern-depths  of  Earth 

Be  shaken,  and  her  mountains  nod  ; 
Well  may  the  sheeted  dead  come  forth 

To  gaze  upon  a  suffering  God  ! 
Well  may  the  temple-shrine  grow  dim, 
A.nd  shadows  veil  the  Cherubim, 
When  He,  the  chosen  one  of  Heaven, 
A  sacrifice  for  guilt  is  given  ! 

And  shall  the  sinful  heart,  alone, 

Behold  unmoved  the  atoning  hour, 
When  Nature  trembles  on  her  throne, 
And  Death  resigns  his  iron  power  ? 
0,  shall  the  heart  —  whose  sinfulness 
Save  keenness  to  his  sore  distress, 
And  added  to  his  tears  of  blood  — 
Refuse  its  trembling  gratitude  ! 


THE  STAR  OF   BETHLEHEM. 

WHERE  Time  the  measure  of  his  hours 
By  changeful  bud  and  blossom  keeps, 


And,  like  a  young  bride  crowned  with 

flowers, 
Fair  Shiraz  in  her  garden  sleeps  ; 

Where,  to  her  poet's  turban  stone, 
The  Spring  her  gift  of  flowers  imparts, 

Less  sweet  than  those  his  thoughts  have 

sown 
In  the  warm  soil  of  Persian  hearts  : 

There  sat  the  stranger,  where  the  shade 
Of  scattered  date-trees  thinly  lay, 

While  in  the  hot  clear  heaven  delayed 
The  long  and  still  and  weary  day. 

Strange  trees  and  fruits  above  him  hung, 
Strange  odors  filled  the  sultry  air, 

Strange  birds  upon  the  branches  swung, 
Strange  insect  voices  murmured  there. 

And     strange     bright    blossoms    shone 

around, 
Turned   sunward   from   the   shadowy 

bowers, 

As  if  the  Gheber's  soul  had  found 
A  fitting  home  in  Iran's  flowers. 

Whate'er  he  saw,  whate'er  he  heard, 
Awakened  feelings  new  and  sad,  — 

No  Christian  garb,  nor  Christian  word, 
Nor  church  with  Sabbath-bell  chimes 
glad, 

But  Moslem  graves,  with  turban  stones, 
And  mosque-spires  gleaming  white,  in 
view, 

And  gray  beard  Mollahs  in  low  tones 
Chanting  their  Koran  service  through. 

The   flowers    which    smiled    on    either 

hand, 
Like   tempting  fiends,  were   such  as 

they 

Which  once,  o'er  all  that  Eastern  land, 
As  gifts  on  demon  altars  lay. 

As  if  the  burning  eye  of  Baal 

The  servant  of  his  Conqueror  knew, 

From  skies  which  knew  no  cloudy  veil, 
The   Sun's    hot  glances    smote    him 
through. 

"  Ah  me  !  "  the  lonely  stranger  said, 
' '  The  hope  which  led  my  footsteps  on, 

And   light   from   heaven   around   them 

shed, 
O'er  weary  wave  and  waste,  is  gone  ! 


88 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


"Where     are    the    harvest    fields    all 

white, 

For  Truth  to  thrust  her  sickle  in  ? 
Where   flock   the   souls,  like   doves   in 

flight, 
From  the  dark  hiding-place  of  sin  ? 

"A  silent  horror  broods  o'er  all,  — 
The  burden  of  a  hateful  spell,  — 

The  very  flowers  around  recall 
The  hoary  magi's  rites  of  hell  ! 

"  And  what  am  I,  o'er  such  a  land 
The  banner  of  the  Cross  to  bear  ? 

Dear  Lord,  uphold  me  with  thy  hand, 
Thy  strength  with   hunuui    weakness 
share  !  " 

He  ceased  ;  for  at  his  very  feet 

In  mild  rebuke  a  floweret  smiled,  — 

How  thrilled  his  sinking  heart  to  greet 
The  Star-flower  of  the  Virgin's  child  ! 

Sown    by   some    wandering    Frank,    it 
drew 

Its  life  from  alien  air  and  earth, 
And  told  to  Paynim  sun  and  dew 

The  story  of  the  Saviour's  birth. 

From  scorching  beams,  in  kindly  mood, 
The  Persian  plants  its  beauty  screened, 

And  on  its  pagan  sisterhood, 

In  love,  the  Christian  floweret  leaned. 

With  tears  of  joy  the  wanderer  felt 
The  darkness  of  his  long  despair 

Before  that  hallowed  symbol  melt, 
Which  God's  dear  love  had  nurtured 
there. 

From  Nature's  face,  that  simple  flower 
The  lines  of  sin  and  sadness  swept  ; 

A.nd  Magian  pile  and  Paynim  bower 
In  peace  like  that  of  Eden  slept. 

Each  Moslem  tomb,  and  cypress  old, 
Looked  holy  through  the  sunset  air  ; 

And,  angel-like,  the  Muezzin  told 

From  tower  and  mosque  the  hour  of 
prayer. 

With  cheerful  steps,  the  morrow's  dawn 
From  Shiraz  saw  the  stranger  part  ; 

The  Star-flower  of  the  Virgin-Born 
Still  blooming  in  his  hopeful  heart  ! 


HYMNS. 


FROM   THE    FRENCH    OF   LAMARTINE. 

ONE  hymn  more,  0  my  lyre  ! 
Praise  to  the  God  above, 
Of  joy  and  life  and  love, 

Sweeping  its  strings  of  tire  ! 

O,  who  the  speed  of  bird  and  wind 

And  sunbeam's  glance  will  lend  to  me, 
That,  soaring  upward,  I  may  find 

My  resting-place  and  home  in  Thee  ? — 
Thou,  whom  my  soul,  midst  doubt  and 
gloom, 

Adoreth  with  a  fervent  flame,  — 
Mysteiious  spirit  !  unto  whom 

Pertain  nor  sign  nor  name  ! 

Swiftly  my  lyre's  soft  murmurs  go, 

Up  from  the  cold  and  joyless  earth, 
Back  to  the  God  who  bade  them  flow, 

Whose  moving  spirit  sent  them  forth. 
But  as  for  me,  0  God  !  for  me. 

The  lowly  creature  of  thy  will, 
Lingering  and  sad,  I  sigh  to  thee, 

An  earth-bound  pilgrim  still  ! 

Was  not  my  spirit  born  to  shine 

Where  yonder  stars  and  suns  are  glow 
ing  ? 
To  breathe  with  them  the  light  divine 

From  God's  own  holy  altar  flowing  ? 
To  be,  indeed,  whate'er  the  soul 

In  dreams  hath  thirsted  for  so  long,  — > 
A  portion  of  Heaven's  glorious  whole 

Of  loveliness  and  song  ? 

0,  watchers  of  the  stars  at  night, 

Who  breathe  their  fire,  as  we  the  air,  — • 
Suns,  thunders,  stars,  and  rays  of  light, 

0,  say,  is  He,  the  Eternal,  there  ? 
Bend  there  around  his  awful  throne 

The  seraph's  glance,  the  angel's  knee  * 
Or  are  thy  inmost  depths  his  own, 

0  wilcfand  mighty  sea  ? 

Thoughts  of  my  soul,  how  swift  ye  go  J 

Swift  as  the  eagle's  glance  of  fire, 
Or  arrows  from  the  archer's  bow, 

To  the  far  aim  of  your  desire  ! 
Thought    after   thought,    ye   thronging 
rise, 

Like  spring-doves  from   the   startled 

wood, 
Bearing  like  them  your  sacrifice 

Of  music  unto  God  1 


HYMNS. 


89 


And  shall  these  thoughts  of  joy  and  love 

Come  bacfc  again  no  more  to  n/e  ?  — 
Returning  like  the  Patriarch's  dove 

Wing-weary  from  the  eternal  sea, 
To  bear  within  my  longing  arms 

The  promise -bough  of  kindlier  skies, 
Plucked  from  the  green,  immortal  palms 

Which  shadow  Paradise  ? 

All-moving  spirit  !  —  freely  forth 

At   thy   command   the   strong    wind 

goes  : 
Its  errand  to  the  passive  earth, 

Nor  art  can  stay,  nor  strength  oppose, 
Until  it  folds  its  weary  wing 

Once  more  within  the  hand  divine  ; 
So,  weary  from  its  wandering, 

My  spirit  turns  to  thine  ! 

Child  of  the  sea,  the  mountain  stream, 

From  its  dark  caverns,  hurries  on, 
Ceaseless,  by  night  and  morning's  beam, 

By  evening's  star  and  noontide's  sun, 
Until  at  last  it  sinks  to  rest, 

O'erwearied,  in  the  waiting  sea, 
And  moans  upon  its  mother's  breast,  — 

So  turns  my  soul  to  Thee  ! 

0  Thou  who  bidd'st  the  torrent  flow, 

Who  lendest  wings  unto  the  wind,  — 
Mover  of  all  things  !  where  art  thou  ? 

0,  whither  shall  I  go  to  find 
The  secret  of  thy  resting-place  ? 

Is  there  no  holy  wing  for  me, 
That,  soaring,  I  may  search  the  space 

Of  highest  heaven  for  Thee  ? 

0,  would  I  were  as  free  to  rise 
As    leaves    on    autumn's    whirlwind 

borne,  — 
The  arrowy  light  of  sunset  skies, 

Or  sound,  or  ray,  or  star  of  morn, 
Which  melts  in  heaven   at    twilight's 

close, 
Or  aught  which  soars  unchecked  and 

free 
Through   Earth  and    Heaven ;   that    I 

might  lose 
Myself  in  finding  Thee  ! 


WHEN  the  BREATH  DIVINE  is  flowing, 
Zephyr -like  o'er  all  things  going, 
And,  as  the  touch  of  viewless  fingers, 
Softly  on  my  soul  it  lingers, 
Open  to  a  breath  the  lightest, 


Conscious  of  a  touch  the  slightest,  — 
As  some  calm,  still  lake,  whereon 
Sinks  the  snowy-bosomed  swan, 
And  the  glistening  water-rings 
Circle  round  her  moving  wings  : 
When  my  upward  gaze  is  turning 
Where  the  stars  of  heaven  are  burning 
Through  the  deep  and  dark  abyss,  — 
Flowers  of  midnight's  wilderness, 
Blowing  with  the  evening's  breath 
Sweetly  in  their  Maker's  path  : 

When  the  breaking  day  is  flushing 
All  the  east,  and  light  is  gushing 
Upward  th rough  the  horizon's  haze, 
Sheaf-like,  with  its  thousand  rays, 
Spreading,  until  all  above 
Overflows  with  joy  and  love, 
And  below,  on  earth's  green  bosom, 
All  is  changed  to  light  and  blossom  : 

When  my  waking  fancies  over 
Forms  of  brightness  flit  and  hover, 
Holy  as  the  seraphs  are, 
Who  by  Zion's  fountains  wear 
On  their  foreheads,  white  and  broad, 
"  HOLINESS  UNTO  THE  LORD  !  " 
When,  inspired  with  rapture  high, 
It  would  seem  a  single  sigh 
Could  a  world  of  love  create,  — 
That  my  life  could  know  no  date, 
And  my  eager  thoughts  could  fill 
Heaven  and  Earth,  o'erflowing  still  !  — « 

Then,  0  Father  !  thou  alone, 
From  the  shadow  of  thy  throne, 
To  the  sighing  of  my  breast 
And  its  rapture  answerest. 
All  my  thoughts,  which,  upward  wing 
ing, 
Bathe   where  thy  own  light  is  spring' 

ing»  — 

All  my  yearnings  to  be  free 
Are  as  echoes  answering  thee  ! 

Seldom  upon  lips  of  mine, 

Father  !  rests  that  name  of  thine,  — 

Deep  within  my  inmost  breast, 
In  the  secret  place  of  mind, 
Like  an  awful  presence  shrined, 

Doth  the  dread  idea  rest  ! 

Hushed  and  holy  dwells  it  there,  — 

Prompter  of  the  silent  prayer, 

Lifting  up  my  spirit's  eye 

And  its  faint,  but  earnest  cry, 

From  its  dark  and  cold  abode, 

Unto  thee,  my  Guide  and  God  f 


90 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  FEMALE   MARTYR. 

[MART  G ,  aged  18,  a  "  SISTER  OF  CHARITY," 

died  in  one  of  our  Atlantic  cities,  during  the 
prevalence  of  the  Indian  cholera,  while  in  volun 
tary  attendance  upon  the  sick.] 

"BRING  out  your  dead!"     The  mid 
night  street 

Heard  and  gave  back  the  hoarse,  low 
call; 

Harsh  fell  the  tread  of  hasty  feet,  — 

Glanced   through   the   dark   the  coarse 

white  sheet,  — 
Her  coffin  and  her  pall. 

"  What  - —  only  one  !  "  the  brutal  hack- 
man  said, 

As,  with  an  oath,  he  spurned  away  the 
dead. 

How  sunk  the  inmost  hearts  of  all, 

As  rolled  that  dead-cart  slowly  by, 
With   creaking  wheel   and  harsh  hoof- 
fall ! 
The  dying  turned  him  to  the  wall, 

To  hear  it  and  to  die  !  — 
Onward  it  rolled  ;   while  oft  its  driver 

stayed, 

And  hoarsely  clamored,  "Ho!  —  bring 
out  your  dead." 

It  paused  beside  the  burial-place  ; 

"Toss  in  your  load  !  "  —  and  it  was 

done.  — 

With  quick  hand  and  averted  face, 
Hastily  to  the  grave's  embrace 

They  cast  them,  one  by  one,  — 
Stranger  and  friend,  —  the  evil  and  the 

just, 
Together  trodden  in  the  churchyard  dust ! 

And  thou,  young  martyr  !  —  thou  wast 

there,  — 
No   white-robed    sisters   round    thee 

trod,  — 

Nor  holy  hymn,  nor  funeral  prayer 
Rose  through  the  damp  and  noisome  air, 

Giving  thee  to  thy  God  ; 
Nor  flower,  nor  cross,  nor  hallowed  taper 

gave 
Grace  to  the  dead,  and  beauty  to  the 

grave  ! 

Yet,  gentle  sufferer  !  there  shall  be, 

In  every  heart  of  kindly  feeling, 
A  rite  as  holy  paid  to  thee 
As  if  beneath  the  convent-tree 
Thy  sisterhood  were  kneeling, 


At  vesper  hours,  like  sorrowing  angels, 

keeping 
Their  tearful  watch  around  thy  place  of 

sleeping. 

For  thou  wast  one  in  whom  the  light 
Of   Heaven's   own  love  was  kindled 

well. 

Enduring  with  a  martyr's  might, 
Through  weary  day  and  wakeful  night 

Far  more  than  words  may  tell : 
Gentle,  and  meek,  and  lowly,  and  un 
known,  — 
Thy  mercies  measured  by  thy  God  alone  ! 

Where    manly    hearts   were   failing,  — 

where 

The  throngful   street  grew  foul  with 
death, 

0    high-souled    martyr  !  —  thou    wast 
there, 

Inhaling,  from  the  loathsome  air, 
Poison  with  eveiy  breath. 

Yet  shrinking  not  from  offices  of  dread 

For  the  wrung  dying,  and  the  uncon 
scious  dead. 

And,  where  the  sickly  taper  shed 

Its  light  through  vapors,  damp,  con 
fined, 

Hushed  as  a  seraph's  fell  thy  tread,  — 

A  new  Electra  by  the  bed 
Of  suffering  human -kind  ! 

Pointing  the  spirit,  in  its  dark  dismay, 

To  that  pure  hope  which  fade th  not  away. 

Innocent  teacher  of  the  high 

And  holy  mysteries  of  Heaven  ! 
How  turned  to  thee  each  glazing  eye, 
In  mute  and  awful  sympathy, 

As  thy  low  prayers  were  given  ; 
And  the  o'er-hovering  Spoiler  wore,  the 

while, 

An     angel's    features,  —  a     deliverer's 
smile  ! 

A  blessed  task  !  —  and  worthy  one 

Who,  turning  from  the  world,  as  thou, 
Before  life's  pathway  had  begun 
To  leave  its  spring-time  flower  and  sun, 

Had  sealed  her  early  vow  ; 
Giving  to  God  her  beauty  and  her  youth, 
Her  pure   affections   and   her  guileless 
truth. 

Earth  may  not  claim  thee.    Nothing  hero 
Could  be  for  thee  a  meet  reward  ; 


THE   VAUDOIS   TEACHER. 


91 


Thine  is  a  treasure  far  more  dear,  — 
Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  nor  the  ear 

Of  living  mortal  heard,  — 
The  joys  prepared,  —  the  promised  bliss 

above,  — 
The  holy  presence  of  Eternal  Love  ! 

Sleep  on  in  peace.     The  earth  has  not 
A  nobler  name  than  thine  shall  be. 

The  deeds  by  martial  manhood  wrought, 

The  lofty  energies  of  thought, 
The  fire  of  poesy,  — 

These  have  but  frail  and  fading  hon 
ors  ;  —  thine 

Shall  Time  unto  Eternity  consign. 

Yea,   and  when  thrones  shall  crumble 

down, 

And  human  pride  and  grandeur  fall,  — 
The  herald's  line  of  long  renown,  — 
The  mitre  and  the  kingly  crown,  — 

Perishing  glories  all  ! 
The  pure  devotion  of  thy  generous  heart 
Shall  live  in  Heaven,  of  which  it  was  a 
part. 


THE  FROST  SPIRIT. 

HE  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit 
comes  !  You  may  trace  his  foot 
steps  now 

On  the  naked  woods  and  the  blasted  fields 
and  the  brown  hill's  withered  brow. 

He  has  smitten  the  leaves  of  the  gray 
old  trees  where  their  pleasant 
green  came  forth, 

And  the  winds,  which  follow  wherever 
he  goes,  have  shaken  them  down 
to  earth. 

He  comes,  —  he  coines,  —  the  Frost 
Spirit  comes  !  —  from  the  frozen 
Labrador,  — 

From  the  icy  bridge  of  the  Northern 
seas,  which  the  white  bear  wan 
ders  o'er,  — 

Where  the  fisherman's  sail  is  stiff  with 
ice,  and  the  luckless  forms  below 

In  the  sunless  cold  of  the  lingering  night 
into  marble  statues  grow  ! 

He  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost 
Spirit  comes  !  —  on  the  rushing 
Northern  blast, 

And  the  dark  Norwegian  pines  have 
bowed  as  his  fearful  breath  went 


With  an  unscorched  wing  he  has  hur 
ried  on,  where  the  fires  of  Hecla 
glow 

On  the  darkly  beautiful  sky  above  and 
the  ancient  ice  below. 

He  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost 
Spirit  comes  !  — and  the  quiet 
lake  shall  feel 

The  torpid  touch  of  his  glazing  breath, 
and  ring  to  the  skater's  heel ; 

And  the  streams  which  danced  on  the 
broken  rocks,  or  sang  to  the  lean 
ing  grass, 

Shall  bow  again  to  their  winter  chain, 
and  in  mournful  silence  pass. 

He  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost 
Spirit  comes  !  —  let  us  meet  him 
as  we  may, 

And  turn  with  the  light  of  the  parlor- 
fire  his  evil  power  away  ; 

And  gather  closer  the  circle  round,  when 
that  firelight  dances  high, 

And  laugh  at  the  shriek  of  the  baffled 
Fiend  as  his  sounding  wing  goes 
by  .' 


THE  VAUDOIS  TEACHER.38 

"0  LADY  fair,  these  silks  of  mine  are 

beautiful  and  rare,  — 
The  richest  web  of  the    Indian  loom, 

which  beauty's  queen  might  wear ; 
And  my  pearls  are  pure  as  thy  own  fair 

neck,  with  whose    radiant  light 

they  vie  ;  • 

I  have  brought  them  with  me  a  weary 

way,  —  will  my  gentle  lady  buy  ?" 

And  the  lady  smiled  on  the  worn  old  man 

through  the  dark  and  clustering 

curls 
Which  veiled  her  brow  as  she  bent  to 

viewhissilksandglitteringpearls; 
And  she  placed  their  price  in  the  old 

man's  hand,    and  lightly  turned 

away, 
But  she  paused  at  the  wanderer's  earnest 

call,  —  "  My  gentle  lady,  stay  !  " 

"  0  lady  fair,  I  have  yet  a  gem  which  a 

purer  lustre  flings, 
Than  the  diamond  flash  of  the  jewelled 

crown     on    the    lofty    brow    of 

kings,  — 


92 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


A  wonderful  pearl  of  exceeding  price, 
whose  virtue  shall  not  decay, 

Whose  light  shall  be  as  a  spell  to  thee 
and  a  blessing  on  thy  way  !  " 

The  lady  glanced  at  the  mirroring  steel 

where  her  form  of  grace  was  seen, 
Where  her  eye  shone  clear,  and  her  dark 

locks  waved  their  clasping  pearls 

between  ; 
"Bring  forth  thy  pearl    of    exceeding 

worth,   thou  traveller   gray  and 

old,  — 
And  name  the  price  of  thy  precious  gem, 

and  my  page  shall  count  thy  gold." 

The  cloud  went  off  from  the  pilgrim's 

brow,  as  a  small  and  meagre  book, 
Unchased  with  gold  or  gem  of  cost,  from 

his  folding  robe  lie  took  ! 
"  Here,  lady  fair,  is  the  pearl  of  price, 

may  it  prove  as  such  to  thee  ! 
Kay  —  keep  thy  gold  —  I  ask  it  not,  for 

the  word  of  God  is  free  !  " 

'f  he  hoary  traveller  went  his  way,  but 

the  gift  he  left  behind 
Hath  had  its  pure  and  perfect  work  on 

that  high-born  maiden's  mind, 
And  she  hath  turned  from  the  pride  of 

sin  to  the  lowliness  of  truth, 
And  given  her  human  heart  to  God  in 

its  beautiful  hour  of  youth  ! 

And  she  hath  left  the  gray  old  halls, 

\vhere  an  evil  faith  had  power, 
The  courtly  knights  of  her  father's  train, 

and  the  maidens  of  her  bovver  ; 
And  she  hath  gone  to  the  Vaudois  vales 

by  lordly  feet  untrod, 
Where  the  poor  and  needy  of  earth  are 

rich  in  the  perfect  love  of  God  ! 


THE  CALL   OF   THE   CHRISTIAN. 

NOT  always  as  the  whirlwind's  rush 

On  Horeb's  mount  of  fear, 
Not  always  as  the  burning  bush 

To  Midiaii's  shepherd  seer, 
Nor  as  the  awful  voice  which  came 

To  Israel's  prophet  bards, 
Nor  as  the  tongues  of  cloven  flame, 

Nor  gift  of  fearful  words,  — 

Not  always  thus,  with  outward  sign 
Of  fire  or  voice  from  Heaven, 


The  message  of  a  truth  divine, 

The  call  of  God  is  given  ! 
Awaking  in  the  human  heart 

Love  for  the  true  and  right,  — 
Zeal  for  the  Christian's  better  part, 

Strength  for  the  Christian's  fight. 

Nor  unto  manhood's  heart  alone 

The  holy  influence  steals  : 
Warm  with  a  rapture  not  its  own, 

The  heart  of  woman  feels  ! 
As  she  who  by  Samaria's  wall 

The  Saviour's  errand  sought,  — 
As  those  who  with  the  fervent  Paul 

And  meek  Aquila  wrought  : 

Or  those  meek  ones  whose  martyrdom 

Rome's  gathered  grandeur  saw  : 
Or  those  who  in  their  Alpine  home 

Braved  the  Crusader's  war, 
When   the    green  Vaudois,    trembling, 
heard, 

Through  all  its  vales  of  death, 
The  martyr's  song  of  triumph  poured 

From  woman's  failing  breath. 

And  gently,  by  a  thousand  things 

Which  o'er  our  spirits  pass, 
Like  breezes  o'er  the  harp's  fine  strings, 

Or  vapors  o'er  a  glass, 
Leaving  their  token  strange  and  new 

Of  music  or  of  shade, 
The  summons  to  the  right  and  true 

And  merciful  is  made. 

0,  then,  if  gleams  of  truth  and  light 

Flash  o'er  thy  waiting  mind, 
Unfolding  to  thy  mental  sight 

The  wants  of  human-kind  ; 
If,  brooding  over  human  grief, 

The  earnest  wish  is  known 
To  soothe  and  gladden  with  relief 

An  anguish  not  thine  own  ; 

Though  heralded  with  naught  of  fear, 

Or  outward  sign  or  show  ; 
Though  only  to  the  inward  ear 

It  whispers  soft  and  low  ; 
Though  dropping,  as  the  manna  fell, 

Unseen,  yet  from  above, 
Noiseless  as  dew-fall,  heed  it  well,  — 

Thy  Father's  call  of  love  ! 


MY  SOUL  AND  I. 

STAND  still,  my  soul,  in  the  silent  dark 
I  would  question  thee, 


MY   SOUL  ANB>  I. 


93 


Alone  in  the  shadow  drear  and  stark 
With  God  and  me  ! 

What,  my  soul,  was  thy  errand  here  ? 

Was  it  mirth  or  ease, 
Or  heaping  up  dust  from  year  to  year  ? 

"  Nay,  none  of  these  !  " 

Speak,  soul,  aright  in  His  holy  sight 

Whose  eye  looks  still 
And  steadily  on  thee  through  the  night  : 

''To  do  his  will  !" 

What  hast  thou  done,  0  soul  of  mine, 
That  thou  tremblest  so  ?  — 

Hast  thou  wrought  his  task,  and  kept 

the  line 
He  bade  thee  go  ? 

What,  silent  all  !  —  art  sad  of  cheer  ? 

Art  fearful  now  ? 
When  God  seemed  far  and  men  were  near, 

How  brave  wert  thou  ! 

Aha  !  thou  tremblest !  —  well  I  see 

Thou  'rt  craven  grown. 
Is  it  so  hard  with  God  and  me 

To  stand  alone  ?  — 

Summon  thy  sunshine  bravery  back, 

0  wretched  sprite  ! 

Let  me  hear  thy  voice  through  this  deep 

and  black 
Abysmal  night. 

What  hast  thou  wrought  for  Right  and 

Truth, 

For  God  and  Man, 
From  the  golden  hours  of  bright-eyed 

youth 
To  life's  mid  span  ? 

Ah,  soul  of  mine,  thy  tones  I  hear, 

But  weak  and  low, 
Like  far  sad  murmurs  on  my  ear 

They  come  and  go. 

"  I    have    wrestled    stoutly    with    the 
Wrong, 

And  borne  the  Right 
From  beneath  the  footfall  of  the  throng 

To  life  and  light. 

"  Wherever  Freedom  shivered  a  chain, 

God  speed,  quoth  I  ; 
To  Error  amidst  her  shouting  train 

1  gave  the  lie." 


Ah,  soul  of  mine  5  ah,  soul  of  mine  ! 

Thy  deeds  are  well  : 

Were  they  wrought  for  Truth's  sake*  or 
for  thine  ? 

My  soul,  pray  tell. 

' '  Of  all  the  work  my  hand  hath  wrought 

Beneath  the  sky, 
Save  a  place  in  kindly  human  thought, 

No  gain  have  I." 

Go  to,  go  to  !  —  for  thy  very  self 

Thy  deeds  were  done  : 
Thou  for  fame,  the  miser  for  pelf, 

Your  end  is  one  ! 

And  where  art  thou  going,  soul  of  mine  ? 

Canst  see  the  end  ? 
And  whither  this  troubled  life  of  thine 

Evermore  doth  tend  ? 

What  daunts  thee  now  ?  —  what  shakes 
thee  so  ? 

My  sad  soul  say. 
"I  see  a  cloud  like  a  curtain  low 

Hang  o'er  my  way. 

"  Whither  I  go  I  cannot  tell  : 

That  cloud  hangs  black, 
High  as  the  heaven  and  deep  as  hell 

Across  my  track. 

"I  see  its  shadow  coldly  enwrap 

The  souls  before. 
Sadly  they  enter  it,  step  by  step, 

To  return  no  more. 

"  Thr    shrink,  they  shudder,  dear  God! 

they  kneel 
'To  thee  in  prayer. 
They  shut  their  eyes  on  the  cloud,  but 

feel 
That  it  still  is  there. 

"In  vain  they  turn  from  the  dread  Before 
To  the  Known  and  Gone  ; 

For  while  gazing  behind  them  evermore 
Their  feet  glide  on. 

"Yet,  at  times,  I  see  upon  sweet  pale 
faces 

A  light  begin 
To  tremble,  as  if  from  holy  places 

And  shrines  within. 

"  And  at  times  methinks  their  cold  lips 

move 
With  hymn  and  prayer. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


As  if  somewhat  of  awe,  but  more  of  love 
And  hope  were  there. 

"  I  call  on  the  souls  who  have  left  the 
light 

To  reveal  their  lot ; 
I  bend  mine  ear  to  that  wall  of  night, 

And  they  answer  not. 

"  But  I  hear  around  me  sighs  of  pain 

And  the  cry  of  fear, 

And  a  sound  like  the  slow  sad  dropping 
of  rain, 

Each  drop  a  tear  ! 

"  Ah,  the  cloud  is  dark,  and  day  by  day 

I  am  moving  thither  : 
I  must  pass  beneath  it  on  my  way  — 

God  pity  me  !  —  WHITHER  ?  " 

Ah,  soul  of  mine  !  so  brave  and  wise 

In  the  life-storm  loud, 
Fronting  so  calmly  all  human  eyes 

In  the  sunlit  crowd  ! 

Now  standing  apart  with  God  and  me 

Thou  art  weakness  all, 
Gazing  vainly  after  the  things  to  be 

Through  Death's  dread  wall. 

But  never  for  this,  never  for  this 

Was  thy  being  lent  ; 
For  the  craven's  fear  is  but  selfishness, 

Like  his  merriment. 

Folly  and  Fear  are  sisters  twain  : 

One  closing  her  eyes, 
The  other  peopling  the  dark  inane 

With  spectral  lies. 

Know  well,  my  soul,  God's  hand  controls 

Whate'er  thou  fearest ; 
Round  him  in  calmest  music  rolls 

Whate'er  thou  hearest. 

What  to  thee  is  shadow,  to  him  is  day, 

And  the  end  he  knoweth, 
And  not  on  a  blind  and  aimless  way 

The  spii'it  goeth. 

Man  sees  no  future,  —  a  phantom  show 

Is  alone  before  him  : 
Past  Time  is  dead,  and  the  grasses  grow, 

And  flowers  bloom  o'er  him. 

Nothing  before,  nothing  behind  ; 
The  steps  of  Faith 


Fall  on  the  seeming  void,  and  find 
The  rock  beneath. 

The  Present,  the  Present  is  all  thou  hast 

For  thy  sure  possessing  ; 
Like  the  patriarch's  angel  hold  it  fast 

Till  it  gives  its  blessing. 

Why  fear  the  night  ?  why  shrink  from 

Death, 

That  phantom  wan  ? 
There  is  nothing  in  heaven  or  earth  be 
neath 
Save  God  and  man. 

Peopling  the  shadows  we  turn  from  Him 

And  from  one  another  ; 
All  is  spectral  and  vague  and  dim 

Save  God  and  our  brother  ! 

Like  warp  and  woof  all  destinies 

Are  woven  fast, 
Linked  in  sympathy  like  the  keys 

Of  an  organ  vast. 

Pluck  one  thread,  and  the  web  ye  mar ; 

Break  but  one 
Of  a  thousand  keys,  and  the  paining  jar 

Through  all  will  run. 

0  restless  spirit !  wherefore  strain 

Beyond  thy  sphere  ? 
Heaven  and  hell,  with  their  joy  and  pain, 

Are  now  and  here. 

Back  to  thyself  is  measured  well 

All  thou  hast  given  ; 
Thy  neighbor's  wrong  is  thy  present  hell, 

His  bliss,  thy  heaven. 

And  in  life,  in  death,  in  dark  and  light, 

All  are  in  God's  care  : 
Sound  the  black  abyss,  pierce  the  deep 
of  night, 

And  he  is  there  ! 

All  which  is  real  now  remaiiieth, 

And  fadeth  never  : 
The  hand  which  upholdsit  nowsustaineth 

The  soul  forever. 

Leaning   on  him,    make   with   reverent 

meekness 
His  own  thy  will, 
And  with  strength  from  Him  shall  th\ 

utter  weakness 
Life's  task  fulfil  ; 


TO  A  FRIEND. 


95 


And  that  cloud  itself,  which  now  befor 

thee 

Lies  dark  in  view, 
Shall  with  beams  of  light  from  the  inn< 

glory 
Be  stricken  through. 

And  like  meadow  mist  through  autumn 
dawn 

TJprolling  thin, 
Its  thickest  folds  when  about  thee  draw 

Let  sunlight  in. 

Then  of  what  is  to  be,  and  of  wrhatis  done 

Why  queriest  thou  ?  — 
The  past  and  the  time  to  be  are  one, 

And  both  are  NOW  ! 


TO  A  FRIEND, 

ON  HER  RETURN  FROM  EUROPE. 

How  smiled  the  land  of  France 
Under  thy  blue  eve's  glance, 

Light-hearted  rover  ! 
Old  walls  of  chateaux  gray, 
Towers  of  an  early  day, 
Which  the  Three  Colors  play 

Flauntingly  over. 

Now  midst  the  brilliant  train 
Thronging  the  banks  of  Seine  : 

Now  midst  the  splendor 
Of  the  wild  Alpine  range, 
Waking  with  change  on  change 
Thoughts  in  thy  young  heart  strange, 
Lovely,  and  tender. 

Vales,  soft  Elysian, 
Like  those  in  the  vision 

Of  Mirza,  when,  dreaming, 
He  saw  the  long  hollow  dell, 
Touched  by  the  prophet's  spell, 
Into  an  ocean  swell 

With  its  isles  teeming. 

Cliffs  wrapped  in  snows  of  years, 
Splintering  with  icy  spears 

Autumn's  blue  heaven  : 
Loose  rock  and  frozen  slide, 
Hung  on  the  mountain-side, 
Waiting  their  hour  to  glide 

Downward,  storm-driven ! 

Rhine-stream,  by  castle  old, 
Baron's  and  robber's  hold, 


Peacefully  flowing ; 

Sweeping  through  vineyards  green, 

Or  where  the  cliffs  are  seen 

O'er  the  broad  wave  between 

Grim  shadows  throwing. 

Or,  where  St.  Peter's  dome 
Swells  o'er  eternal  Rome, 

Vast,  dim,  and  solemn,  — 
Hymns  ever  chanting  low,  — 
Censers  swung  to  and  fro,  — 
Sable  stoles  sweeping  slow 

Cornice  and  column  ! 

0,  as  from  each  and  all 
Will  there  not  voices  call 

Evermore  back  again  ? 
In  the  mind's  gallery 
Wilt  thou  not  always  see 
Dim  phantoms  beckon  thee 

O'er  that  old  track  again  ? 

New  forms  thy  presence  haunt,  — 
New  voices  softly  chant,  — 

New  faces  greet  thee  !  — 
Pilgrims  from  many  a  shrine 
Hallowed  by  poet's  line, 
At  memory's  magic  sign, 

Rising  to  meet  thee. 

And  when  such  visions  come 
Unto  thy  olden  home, 

Will  they  not  waken 
Deep  thoughts  of  Him  whose  hand 
Led  thee  o'er  sea  and  land 
Back  to  the  household  band 

Whence  thou  wast  taken  ? 

While,  at  the  sunset  time, 
Swells  the  cathedral's  chime, 

Yet,  in  thy  dreaming, 
While  to  thy  spirit's  eye 
Yet  the  vast  mountains  lie 
Piled  in  the  Switzer's  sky, 

Icy  and  gleaming  : 

Prompter  of  silent  prayer, 
Be  the  wild  picture  there 

In  the  mind's  chamber, 
And,  through  each  coming  day 
Him  who,  as  staff  and  stay, 
Watched  o'er  thy  wandering  way, 

Freshly  remember. 

So,  when  the  call  shall  be 
Soon  or  late  unto  thee, 
As  to  all  given, 


96 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Still  may  that  picture  live, 
All  its  fair  forms  survive, 
And  to  thy  spirit  give 
Gladness  in  Heaven  ! 


THE  ANGEL   OF   PATIENCE. 

A  FREE  PARAPHRASE  OF  THE  GERMAN. 

To  weary  hearts,  to  mourning  homes, 
God's  meekest  Angel  gently  comes  : 
No  power  has  he  to  banish  pain, 
Or  give  us  back  our  lost  again  ; 
And  yet  in  tenderest  love,  our  dear 
And  Heavenly  Father  sends  him  here. 

There  's  quiet  in  that  Angel's  glance, 
There  's  rest  in  his  still  countenance  ! 
He  mocks  no  grief  with  idle  cheer, 
Nor  wounds  with  words  the  mourner's  ear ; 
But  ills  and  woes  he  may  not  cure 
He  kindly  trains  us  to  endure. 

Angel  of  Patience  !  sent  to  calm 
Our  feverish  brows  with  cooling  palm  ; 
To  lay  the  storms  of  hope  and  fear, 
And  reconcile  life's  smile  and  tear  ; 
The  throbs  of  wounded  pride  to  still, 
And  make  our  own  our  Father's  will  ! 

O  thou  who  mournest  on  thy  way, 
With  longings  for  the  close  of  day  ; 
He  walks  with  thee,  that  Angel  kind, 
And  gently  whispers,  "  Be  resigned  : 
Bear  up,  bear  on,  the  end  shall  tell 
The  dear  Lord  ordereth  all  things  well  !  " 


FOLLEN. 

ON  READING   HIS   ESSAY    ON  THE    "FU 
TURE   STATE." 

FRIEND  of  my  soul  !  —  as  with  moist  eye 
I  look  up  from  this  page  of  thine, 

Is  it  a  dream  that  thou  art  nigh, 
Thy  mild  face  gazing  into  mine  ? 

That  presence  seems  before  me  now, 
A  placid  heaven  of  sweet  moonrise, 

When,  dew-like,  on  the  earth  below 
Descends  the  quiet  of  the  skies. 

The  calm  brow  through  the  parted  hair, 
The  gentle  lips  which  knew  no  guile, 

Softening  the  blue  eye's  thoughtful  care 
With  the  bland  beauty  of  their  smile. 


Ah  me  !  —  at  times  that  last  dread  scene 
Of  Frost  and  Fire  and  moaning  Sea, 

Will  cast  its  shade  of  doubt  between 
The  failing  eyes  of  Faith  and  thee. 

Yet,  lingering  o'er  thy  charmed  page, 
Where  through  the  twilight  air  of  earth, 

Alike  enthusiast  and  sage, 

Prophet  and  bard,  thou  gazest  forth  j 

Lifting  the  Future's  solemn  veil  ; 

The  reaching  of  a  mortal  hand 
To  put  aside  the  cold  and  pale 

Cloud-curtains  of  the  Unseen  Land  ; 

In  thoughts  which  answer  to  my  own, 
In  words  which  reach  my  inward  ear, 

Like  whispers  from  the  void  Unknown, 
I  feel  thy  living  presence  here. 

The  waves  which  lull  thy  body's  rest, 
The  dust  thy  pilgrim  footsteps  trod, 

Unwasted,  through  each  change,  attest 
The  fixed  economy  of  God. 

Shall  these  poor  elements  outlive 

The   mind   whose   kingly    will   they 
wrought  ? 

Their  gross  unconsciousness  survive 
Thy  godlike  energy  of  thought  ? 

THOU  LIVEST,  FOLLEN  !  —  not  in  vain 
Hath  thy  fine  spirit  meekly  borne 

The  burthen  of  Life's  cross  of  pain, 
And  the   thorned  crown  of  suffering 


0,  while  Life's  solemn  mystery  glooms 
Around  us  like  a  dungeon's  wall,  — 

Silent  earth's  pale  and  crowded  tombs, 
Silent  the   heaven  which   bends  o'er 
all!- 

While  day  by  day  our  loved  ones  glide 
In  spectral  silence,  hushed  and  lone, 

To  the  cold  shadows  which  divide 
The  living  from  the  dread  Unknown  ; 

While  even  on  the  closing  eye, 

And  on  the  lip  which  moves  in  vain, 

The  seals  of  that  stern  mystery 

Their  undiscovered  trust  retain  ;  — 

And  only  midst  the  gloom  of  death, 
Its   mournful   doubts   and    haunting 
fears, 

Two  pale,  sweet  angels,  Hope  and  Faith, 
Smile  dimly  on  us  through  their  tears ; 


TO   THE   KEFORMEKS    OF    ENGLAND. 


97 


*T  is  something  to  a  heart  like  mine 

To  think  of  thee  as  living  yet ; 
To  feel  that  such  a  light  as  thine 
.     Could  not  in  utter  darkness  set. 

Less  dreary  seems  the  untried  way 
Since  thou  hast  left  thy  footprints  there, 

And  beams  of  mournful  beauty  play 
Round  the  sad  Angel's  sable  hair. 

Oh  !  —  at  this  hour  when  half  the  sky 
Is  glorious  with  its  evening  light, 

And  fair  broad  fields  of  summer  lie 
Hung  o'er  with  greenness  in  my  sight ; 

While  through  these  elm-boughs  wet  with 

rain 

The  sunset's  golden  walls  are  seen, 
With  clover-bloom  and  yellow  grain 
And  wood-draped  hill  and  stream  be 
tween  ; 

I  long  to  know  if  scenes  like  this 
Are  hidden  from  an  angel's  eyes  ; 

If  earth's  familiar  loveliness 

Haunts  not  thy  heaven's  serener  skies. 

For  sweetly  here  upon  thee  grew 
The  lesson  which  that  beauty  gave, 

The  ideal  of  the  Pure  and  True 

In  earth  and  sky  and  gliding  wave. 

And  it  may  be  that  all  which  lends 
The  soul  an  upward  impulse  here, 

With  a  diviner  beauty  blends, 
And  greets  us  in  a  holier  sphere. 

Through  groves  where  blighting  never  fell 
The    humbler  flowers   of  earth   may 

twine  ; 
And   simple  draughts  from   childhood's 

well 
Blend  with  the  angel-tasted  wine. 

But  be  the  prying  vision  veiled, 
And  let  the  seeking  lips  be  dumb,  — 

Where  even  seraph  eyes  have  failed 
Shall  mortal  blindness  seek  to  come  ? 

We  only  know  that  thou  hast  gone, 
And  that  the  same  returnless  tide 

Which  bore  thee  from  us  still  glides  on, 
And  we  who  mourn  thee  with  it  glide. 

On  all  thou  lookest  we  shall  look, 
And  to  our  gaze  erelong  shall  turn 

That  page  of  God's  mysterious  book 
We  so  much  wish,  yet  dread  to  learn. 


With  Him,  before  whose  awful  power 
Thy  spirit  bent  its  trembling  knee  ;  — 

Who,  in  the  silent  greeting  flower, 
And  forest  leaf,  looked  out  on  thee,  — ^ 

We  leave  thee,  with  a  trust  serene, 
Which  Time,  nor  Change,  nor  Death 
can  move, 

While  with  thy  childlike  faith  we  lean 
On  Him  whose  dearest  name  is  Love  ! 


TO    THE    REFORMERS    OF   ENG 
LAND. 

GOD  bless  ye,  brothers  !  —  in  the  fight 
Ye  're  waging  now,  ye  cannot  fail, 

For  better  is  your  sense  of  right 
Than  king-craft's  triple  mail. 

Than  tyrant's  law,  or  bigot's  ban, 
More  mighty  is  your  simplest  word  ; 

The  free  heart  of  an  honest  man 
Than  crosier  or  the  sword. 

Go,  —  let  your  bloated  Church  rehearse 
The  lesson  it  has  learned  so  well ; 

It  moves  not  with  its  prayer  or  curse 
The  gates  of  heaven  or  hell. 

Let  the  State  scaffold  rise  again,  — 
Did  Freedom  die  when  Russell  died  / 

Forget  ye  how  the  blood  of  Vane 
From  earth's  green  bosom  cried  ? 

The  great  hearts  of  your  olden  time 
Are  beating  with  you,  full  and  strong 

All  holy  memories  and  sublime 
And  glorious  round  ye  throng. 

The  bluff,  bold  men  of  Runnymede 
Are  with  ye  still  in  times  like  these 

The  shades  of  England's  mighty  dead, 
Your  cloud  of  witnesses  ! 

The  truths  ye  urge  are  borne  abroad 
By  every  wind  and  every  tide  ; 

The  voice  of  Nature  and  of  God 
Speaks  out  upon  your  side. 

The  weapons  which  your  hands  have 

found 
Are   those   which   Heaven   itself  has 

wrought, 

Light,  Truth,  and  Love  ;  —  your  battle 
ground 
The  free,  broad  field  of  Thought. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


No  partial,  selfish  purpose  breaks 
The  simple  beauty  of  your  plan, 

Nor  lie  from  throne  or  altar  shakes 
Your  steady  faith  in  man. 

The  languid  pulse  of  England  starts 
And  bounds  beneath  your  words  of 
power, 

The  beating  of  her  million  hearts 
Is  with  you  at  this  hour  ! 

0  ye  who,  with  undoubting  eyes, 

Through  present  cloud  and  gathering 
storm, 

Behold  the  span  of  Freedom's  skies, 
And  sunshine  soft  and  warm,  — 

Press  bravely  onward  !  —  not  in  vain 
Your  generous  trust  in  human-kind  ; 

The  good  which  bloodshed  could  not  gain 
Your  peaceful  zeal  shall  find. 

Press  on  !  —  the  triumph  shall  be  won 
Of  common  rights  and  equal  laws, 

The  glorious  dream  of  Harrington, 
And  Sidney's  good  old  cause. 

Blessing  the  cotter  and  the  crown, 
Sweetening  worn  Labor's  bitter  cup  ; 

And,  plucking  not  the  highest  down, 
Lifting  the  lowrest  up. 

Press  on  !  —  and  we  who  may  not  share 
The  toil  or  glory  of  your  fight 

May  ask,  at  least,  in  earnest  prayer, 
God's  blessing  on  the  right  ! 

\  THE    QUAKEE    OF    THE    OLDEN 
TIME. 

THE  Quaker  of  the  olden  time  !  — 

How  calm  and  firm  and  true, 
Unspotted  by  its  wrong  and  crime, 

He  walked  the  dark  earth  through. 
Tho  lust  of  power,  the  love  of  gain, 

The  thousand  lures  of  sin 
Around  him,  had  no  power  to  stain 

The  purity  within. 

"With  that  deep  insight  which  detects 

All  great  things  in  the  small, 
And  knows  how  each  man's  life  affects 

The  spiritual  life  of  all, 
He  walked  by  faith  and  not  by  sight, 

By  love  and  not  by  law  ; 
The  presence  of  the  wrong  or  right 

He  rather  felt  than  saw. 


He  felt  that  wrong  with  wrong  partakec, 

That  nothing  stands  alone, 
,-That  whoso  gives  the  motive,  makes 
j     His  brother's  sin  his  own. 
And,  pausing  not  for  doubtful  choice 

Of  evils  great  or  small, 
He  listened  to  that  inward  voice 

"Which  called  away  from  all. 

0  Spirit  of  that  early  day, 

So  pure  and  strong  and  true, 
Be  with  us  in  the  narrow  way 

Our  faithful  fathers  knew. 
Give  strength  the  evil  to  forsake, 

The  cross  of  Truth  to  bear, 
And  love  and  reverent  fear  to  make 

Our  daily  lives  a  prayer  ! 


THE   REFORMER. 

ALL  grim  and  soiled  and  brown  with 

tan, 

I  saw  a  Strong  One,  in  his  wrath, 
Smiting  the  godless  shrines  of  man 
Along  his  path. 

The  Church,  beneath  her  trembling  dome, 

Essayed  in  vain  her  ghostly  charm  : 
Wealth  shook  within  his  gilded  home 
With  strange  alarm. 

Fraud  from  his  secret  chambers  iled 

Before  the  sunlight  bursting  in  : 

Sloth  drew  her  pillow  o'er  her  head 

To  drown  the  din. 

"  Spare,"  Art  implored,  "  yon  holy  pile  ; 
That    grand,    old,    time-worn    turret 

spare  "  ; 

Meek  Reverence,  kneeling  in  the  aisle, 
Cried  out,  "  Forbear  !  " 

Gray-bearded  Use,  who,  deaf  and  blind, 
Groped  for  his  old  accustomed  stone, 
Leaned  on  his  staff,  and  wept  to  find 
His  seat  o'erthrown. 

Young  Romance  raised  his  dreamy  eyes. 

O'erhung  with  paly  locks  of  gold,  — 

"  Why  smite,"  he  asked  in  sad  surprise, 

"The  fair,  the  old?" 

Yet  louder  rang  the  Strong  One's  stroke, 

Yet  nearer  flashed  his  axe's  gleam  ; 
Shuddering  and  sick  of  heart  I  woke. 
As  from  a  dream. 


THE   PRISONER   FOR   DEBT. 


99 


[  looked  :  aside  the  dust-cloud  rolled.  — 

The  Waster  seemed  the  Builder  too  ; 
Up  springing  from  the  ruined  Old 
I  saw  the  New. 

'T  was  but  the  ruin  of  the  bad,  — 

The  wasting  of  the  wrong  and  ill ; 
Whate'er  of  good  the  old  time  had 
Was  living  still. 

Calm  grew  the  brows  of  him  I  feared  ; 

The  frown  which  awed  me  passed  away, 
And  left  behind  a  smile  which  cheered 
Like  breaking  day. 

The  grain  grew  green  on  battle-plains, 
O'er  swarded  war-mounds  grazed  the 

oow  ; 

The  slave  stood  forging  from  his  chains 
The  spade  and  plough. 

Where  frowned  the  fort,  pavilions  gay 

And  cottage  windows,  flower-entwined, 
Looked  out  upon  the  peaceful  bay 
And  hills  behind. 

Through  vine-wreathed  cups  with  wine 

once  red, 

The  lights  on  brimming  crystal  fell, 
Drawn,  sparkling,  from  the  rivulet  head 
And  mossy  well. 

Through  prison  walls,  like  Heaven-sent 

hope, 
Fresh    breezes   blew,    and    sunbeams 

strayed, 
And  with  the  idle  gallows-rope 

The  young  child  played. 

Where  the  doomed  victim  in  his  cell 
Had  counted  o'er  the  weary  hours, 
Glad  school-girls,  answering  to  the  bell, 
Came  crowned  with  flowers. 

Grown  wiser  for  the  lesson  given, 

I  fear  no  longer,  for  I  know- 
That,  where  the  share  is  deepest  driven, 
The  best  fruits  grow. 

The  outworn  rite,  the  old  abuse, 

The  pious  fraud  transparent  grown, 
The  good  held  captive  in  the  use 
Of  wrong  alone,  — 

These  wait  their  doom,  from  that  great  law 
Which  makes  the  past  time  serve  to 
day  ; 


And  fresher  life  the  world  shall  draw 
From  their  decay. 

0,  backward-looking  son  of  time  ! 
The  new  is  old,  the  old  is  new, 
The  cycle  of  a  change  sublime 
Still  sweeping  through. 

So  wisely  taught  the  Indian  seer  ; 

Destroying  Seva,  forming  Brahm, 
Who   wake  by  turns   Earth's  love  and 

fear, 
Are  one,  the  same. 

Idly  as  thou,  in  that  old  day 

Thou  mournest,  did  thy  sire  repine  ; 
So,  in  his  time,  thy  child  grown  gray 
Shall  sigh  for  thine. 

But  life  shall  on  and  upward  go  ; 

Th'  eternal  step  of  Progress  beats 
To  that  great  anthem,  calm  and  slow, 
Which  God  repeats. 

Take  heart !  —  the  Waster  builds  again,  •— 

A  charmed  life  old  Goodness  hath  ; 
The  tares  may  perish,  —  but  the  grain 
Is  not  for  death. 

God  works  in  all  things  ;  all  obey 

His  first  propulsion  from  the  night  : 
Wake  thou  and  watch  !  —  the  world  is 

gray 
With  morning  light  ! 


THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT. 

LOOK  on  him  !  —  through  his  dungeon 

grate 

Feebly  and  cold,  the  morning  light 
Comes    stealing    round    him,   dim    and 

late, 

As  if  it  loathed  the  sight. 
Reclining  on  his  strawy  bed, 
His  hand  upholds  his  drooping  head,  — • 
His  bloodless  cheek  is  seamed  and  hard, 
Unshorn  his  gray,  neglected  beard  ; 
And  o'er  his  bony  fingers  flow 
His  long,  dishevelled  locks  of  snow. 

No  grateful  fire  before  him  glows, 
And  yet  the  winter's  breath  is  chill ; 

And  o'er  his  half-clad  person  goes 
The  frequent  ague  thrill  ! 

Silent,  save  ever  and  anon, 

A  sound,  half  murmur  and  half  groan. 


100 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Forces  apart  the  painful  grip 
Of  the  old  sufferer's  bearded  lip  ; 
0  sad  and  crushing  is  the  fate 
Of  old  age  chained  and  desolate  ! 

Just  God  !  why  lies  that  old  man  there  ? 

A  murderer  shares  his  prison  bed, 
Whose  eyeballs,  through  his  horrid  hair, 

Gleam  on  him,  fierce  and  red  ; 
And  the  rude  oath  and  heartless  jeer 
Fall  ever  on  his  loathing  ear, 
And,  or  in  wakefulness  or  sleep, 
Nerve,  flesh,  and  pulses  thrill  and  creep 
Whene'er  that  ruffian's  tossing  limb, 
Crimson  with  murder,  touches  him  ! 

What  has  the  gray -haired  prisoner  done  ? 
Has  murder  stained  his  hands  with 

gore? 
Not  so  ;  his  crime  's  a  fouler  one  ; 

GOD  MADE  THE  OLD  MAN  POOR  ! 

For  this  he  shares  a  felon's  cell,  — 
The  fittest  earthly  type  of  hell  ! 
For  this,  the  boon  for  which  he  poured 
His  young  blood  on  the  invader's  sword, 
And  counted  light  the  fearful  cost,  — 
His  blood-gained  liberty  is  lost  ! 

And  so,  for  such  a  place  of  rest, 

Old  prisoner,   dropped  thy  blood  as 

rain 
On  Concord's  field,  and  Bunker's  crest, 

And  Saratoga's  plain  ? 
Look  forth,  them  man  of  many  scars, 
Through  thy  dim  dungeon's  iron  bars  ; 
It  must  be  joy,  in  sooth,  to  see 
Yon  monument  upreared  to  thee,  — 
Piled  granite  and  a  prison  cell,  — 
The  land  repays  thy  service  well  ! 

Go,  ring  the  bells  and  fire  the  guns, 
And  fling  the  starry  banner  out ; 
Shout    "Freedom!"    till  your  lisping 

ones 

Give  back  their  cradle -shout  ; 
Let  boastful  eloquence  declaim 
Of  honor,  liberty,  and  fame  ; 
Still  let  the  poet's  strain  be  heard, 
With  glory  for  each  second  word, 
And  everything  with  breath  agree 
To  praise  "  our  glorious  liberty  ! '' 

But  when  the  patron  cannon  jars 
That  prison's  cold  and  gloomy  wall, 

And  through  its  grates  the  stripes  and 

stars 
Rise  on  the  wind,  and  fall,  — 


Think  ye  that  prisoner's  aged  ear 
Rejoices  in  the  general  cheer  ? 
Think  ye  his  dim  and  failing  eye 
Is  kindled  at  your  pageantry  ? 
Sorrowing  of  soul,  and  chained  of  limb, 
What  is  your  carnival  to  him  ? 

Down   with  the   LAW  that  binds  him 
thus  ! 

Unworthy  freemen,  let  it  find 
No  refuge  from  the  withering  curse 

Of  God  and  human  kind  ! 
Open  the  prison's  living  tomb, 
And  usher  from  its  brooding  gloom 
The  victims  of  your  savage  code- 
To  the  free  sun  and  air  of  God  ; 
No  longer  dare  as  crime  to  brand 
The  chastening  of  the  Almighty's  hand. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  READING  PAMPHLETS 
PUBLISHED  BY  CLERGYMEN  AGAINST 
THE  ABOLITION  OF  THE  GALLOWS. 

I. 

THE   suns  of    eighteen   centuries  have 

shone 
Since  the  Redeemer  walked  with  man, 

and  made 
The  fisher's  boat,  the   cavern's  floor  of 

stone, 
And  mountain  moss,  a  pillow  for  his 

head  ; 

And  He,  who  wandered  with  the  peas 
ant  Jew, 
And  broke  with  publicans  the  bread 

of  shame, 

And  drank,  with  blessings  in  his  Fa 
ther's  name, 

The  water  which  Samaria's  outcast  drew, 
Hath  now  his  temples  upon  every  shore, 
Altar  and  shrine  and  priest,  —  and  in 
cense  dim 
Evermore  rising,  with  low  prayer  and 

hymn, 

From  lips  which  press  the  temple's  mar 
ble  floor. 

Or  kiss   the   gilded   sign  of  the  dread 
Cross  He  bore. 

II. 

Yet  as   of  old,  when,  meekly    "doing 

good," 
He  fed  a  blind  and  selfish  multitude, 


LINES. 


101 


And  even  the  poor  companions  of  his  lot 
With  their  dim  earthly  vision  knew  him 

not, 

How  ill  are  his  high  teachings  under 
stood  ! 
Where   He    hath   spoken   Liberty,    the 

priest 
At   his   own   altar   binds   the    chain 

anew  ; 

Where  He  hath  bidden  to  Life's  equal 
feast, 

the  few ; 
his  name 


The  starving  many  wait  upon  tl 
/'here  He  hath  spoken  Peace,  hi 


Where  Me  hath  spoi 

hath  been 

The  loudest  war-cry  of  contending  men  ; 
Priests,  pale  with   vigils,  in  his   name 

have  blessed 
The  unsheathed  sword,    and  laid    the 

spear  in  rest, 
Wet  the  war-banner  with  their  sacred 

wine, 
And  crossed  its  blazon   with  the  holy 

sign; 
Yea,  in  his  name  who  bade  the  erring 

live, 
And  daily   taught  his  lesson,  —  to  for 

give  !  — 
Twisted  the  cord  and  edged  the  mur 

derous  steel  ; 
And,  with  his  words  of  mercy  on  their 

lips, 
Hung  gloating  o'er  the  pincer's  burning 

grips, 
And  the  grim  horror  of  the  straining 

wheel  ; 
Fed   the  slow  ilame  which  gnawed  the 

victim's  limb, 
Who   saw    before  his  searing   eyeballs 

swim 
The   image   of  their   Christ   in   cruel 

zeal, 
Through  the  black  torment-smoke,  held 

mockingly  to  him  ! 


III. 

The  blood  which  mingled  with  the  des 

ert  sand, 
And  beaded  with  its  red  and  ghastly 

dew 

The  vines  and  olives  of  the  Holy  Land,  — 
The  shrieking   curses  of  the  hunted 

Jew,  — 
The     white-sown    bones     of    heretics, 

where'er 
They  sank  beneath  the  Crusade's  holy 

spear,  — 


Goa's    dark    dungeons,  —  Malta's    sea. 

washed  cell, 
Where  with  the  hymns  the  ghostly 

fathers  sung 

Mingled  the  groans  by  subtle  torture 
wrung, 

Heaven's    anthem    blending    with    the 
shriek  of  hell  ! 

The  midnight   of    Bartholomew,  —  the 

stake 

Of    Smithfield,    and    that    thrice-ac 
cursed  flame 

Which     Calvin    kindled    by    Geneva's 
lake,  — 

New  England's  scaffold,  and  the  priestly 
sneer 

Which  mocked  its  victims  in  that  hour 

of  fear, 

When  guilt  itself  a  human  tear  might 
claim,  — 

Bear  witness,  0  thou  wronged  and  mer 
ciful  One  ! 

That  Earth's  most  hateful  crimes  have 
in  thy  name  been  done  ! 


IV. 


Thank  God  !  that   I  have  lived  to  see 

the  time 
When  the  great  truth  begins  at  last  to 

find 
An  utterance  from  the  deep  heart  of 

mankind, 
Earnest  and  clear,  that  ALL  REVENGE  is 

CRIME  ! 
That  man  is  holier  than  a  creed,  —  that 

all 
Restraint  upon  him  must  consult  his 

good, 
Hope's   sunshine   linger  on  his  prison 

wall, 

And    Love  look  in    upon    his  soli 
tude. 
The  beautiful  lesson  which  our  Saviour 

taught 
Through  long,  dark  centuries  its  way 

hath  wrought 
Into  the   common    mind    and    popular 

thought ; 
And  words,  to  which  by  Galilee's  lake 

shore 
The  humble  fishers  listened  with  hushed 

oar, 
Have  found   an    echo-  in    the   general 

heart, 
And  of  the  public  faith  become  a  living 

part. 


102 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Who  shall  arrest  this  tendency  ?  — •  Bring 
back 

The  cells  of  Venice  and  the  bigot's  rack  ? 

Harden  the  softening  human  heart  again 

To  cold  indifference  to  a  brother's  pain  ? 

Ye  most  unhappy  men  !  —  who,  turned 
away 

From  the  mild  sunshine  of  the  Gospel 

day, 

Grope  in  the  shadows  of  Man's  twi 
light  time, 

What   mean   ye,    that   with   ghoul-like 
zest  ye  brood, 

O'er   those   foul   altars   streaming   with 

warm  blood, 
Permitted  in  another  age  and  clime  ? 

Why  cite  that  law  with  which  the  bigot 
Jew 

Eebuked  the   Pagan's  mercy,  when  he 
knew 

No  evil  in  the  Just  One  ?  —  Wherefore 
turn 

To  the  dark  cruel  past  ?  —  Can  ye  not 
learn 

From  the  pure  Teacher's  life,  how  mildly 
free 

Js  the  great  Gospel  of  Humanity  ? 

The  Flamen's  knife  is  bloodless,  and  no 
more 

Mexitli's  altars  soak  with  human  gore, 

No  more  the  ghastly  sacrifices  smoke 

Through  the  green  arches  of  the  Druid's 
oak  ; 

And  ye  of  milder  faith,  with  your  high 
claim 

Of    prophet-utterance    in    the    Holiest 
name, 

Will  ye  become  the  Druids  of  our  time  ! 

Set  up  your  scaffold -altars  in  our  land, 

And,    c'onsecrators     of    Law's    darkest 

crime, 

Urge  to  its  loathsome  work  the  hang 
man's  hand  ? 

Beware,  —  lest  human  nature,  roused  at 
last, 

From  its  peeled  shoulder  your  encum 
brance  cast, 

And,  sick  to  loathing  of  your  cry  for 
blood, 

Rank  ye  with  those  who  led  their  vic 
tims  round 

The   Celt's   red  altar  and  the  Indian's 

mound, 

Abhorred  of  Earth  and  Heaven,  —  a 
pagan  brotherhood  ! 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE. 


FAR  from  his  close  and  noisome  cell, 

By  grasey  lane  and  sunny  stream, 
Blown  clover  field  and  strawberry  dell, 
And  green  and  meadow  freshness,  fell 

The  footsteps  of  his  dream. 
Again  from  careless  feet  the  dew 

Of  summer's  misty  morn  he  shook  ; 
Again  with  merry  heart  he  threw 

His  light  line  in  the  rippling  brook. 
Back  crowded  all  his  school-day  joys,  — 

He  urged  the  ball  and  quoit  again, 
And  heard  the  shout  of  laughing  boys 

Come  ringing  down  the  walnut  glen. 
Again  he  felt  the  western  breeze, 

With   scent   of  flowers   and  crisping 

hay  ; 

And   down  again  through   wind-stirred 
trees 

He  saw  the  quivering  sunlight  play. 
An  angel  in  home's  vine-hung  door, 
He  saw  his  sister  smile  once  more  ; 
Once   more    the    truant's   brown-locked 

head 

Upon  his  mother's  knees  was  laid, 
And  sweetly  lulled  to  slumber  there, 
With  evening's  holy  hymn  and  prayer  ! 


He  woke.     At  once  on  heart  and  brain 
The  present  Terror  rushed  again,  — 
Clanked  on  his  limbs  the  felon's  chain  ! 
He  woke,  to  hear  the  church -tower  tell 
Time's  footfall  on  the  conscious  bell, 
And,  shuddering,  feel  that  clanging  din 
His  life's  LAST  HOUR  had  ushered  in  ; 
To  see  within  his  prison-yard, 
Through  the  small  window,  iron  "barred, 
The  gallows  shadow  rising  dim 
Between  the  sunrise  heaven  and  him,  — 
A  horror  in  God's  blessed  air,  — 

A  blackness  in  his  morning  light,  — 
Like  some  foul  devil-altar  there 

Built  up  by  demon  hands  at  night. 

And,  maddened  by  that  evil  sight, 
Dark,  horrible,  confused,  and  strange, 
A  chaos  of  wild,  weltering  change, 
All  power  of  check  and  guidance  gone, 
Dizzy  and  blind,  his  mind  swept  on. 
In  vain  he  strove  to  breathe  a  prayer, 

In  vain  he  turned  the  Holy  Book, 
He  only  heard  the  gallows-stair 

Creak  as  the  wind  its  timbers  shook. 
No  dream  for  him  of  sin  forgiven, 

While  still  that  baleful  spectre  stood, 


THE  HUMAN   SACRIFICE. 


103 


"With  its  hoarse  murmur,  "  Blood  for 

Blood  1 " 
Between  him  and  the  pitying  Heaven  ! 

III. 

Low  on  his  dungeon  floor  he  knelt, 
And   smote   his   breast,    and   on    his 

chain, 
Whose  iron  clasp  he  always  felt, 

His  hot  tears  fell  like  rain  ; 
And  near  him,  with  the  cold,  calm  look 
And  tone  of  one  whose  formal  part, 
Un warmed,  unsoftened  of  the  heart, 
Is  measured  out  by  rule  and  book, 
With  placid  lip  and  tranquil  blood, 
The  hangman's  ghostly  ally  stood, 
Blessing  with  solemn  text  and  word 
The  gallows-drop  and  strangling  cord  ; 
Lending  the  sacred  Gospel's  awe 
And  sanction  to  the  crime  of  Law. 

IV. 

He  saw  the  victim's  tortured  brow,  — 

The  sweat  of  anguish  starting  there,  — 
The  record  of  a  nameless  woe 

In  the  dim  eye's  imploring  stare, 
Seen  hideous  through  the  long,  damp 

hair,  — 

Fingers  of  ghastly  skin  and  bone 
Working  and  writhing  on  the  stone  !  — 
And  heard,  by  mortal  terror  wrung 
From  heaving  breast  and  stiffened  tongue, 
The  choking  sob  and  low  hoarse  prayer  ; 
As  o'er  his  half-crazed  fancy  came 
A  vision  of  the  eternal  flame,  — 
Its  smoking  cloud  of  agonies,  — 
Its  demon-worm  that  never  dies,  — 
The  everlasting  rise  and  fall 
Of  fire-waves  round  the  infernal  wall ; 
While  high  above  that  dark  red  flood, 
Black,  giant-like,  the  gallows  stood  ; 
Two  busy  fiends  attending  there  : 
One  with  cold  mocking  rite  and  prayer, 
The  other  with  impatient  grasp, 
Tightening   the  death-rope's   strangling 
clasp. 

v. 

The  unfelt  rite  at  length  was  done,  — 
The   prayer  unheard   at   length   was 

said,  — 
An  hour  had  passed  :  —  the  noonday  sun 

Smote  on  the  features  of  the  dead  ! 
And  he  who  stood  the  doomed  beside, 
Calm  ganger  of  the  swelling  tide 
Of  mortal  agony  and  fear, 
Heeding  with  curious  eye  and  ear 


Whate'er  revealed  the  keen  excess 
Of  man's  extremest  wretchedness  : 
And  who  in  that  dark  anguish  saw 

An  earnest  of  the  victim's  fate, 
The  vengeful  terrors  of  God's  law, 

The  kindlings  of  Eternal  hate,  — 
The  first  drops  of  that  fiery  rain 
Which  beats  the  dark  red  realm  of  pain, 
Did  lie  uplift  his  earnest  cries 

Against  the  crime  of  Law,  which  gave 

His  brother  to  that  fearful  grave, 
Whereon  Hope's  moonlight  never  lies, 

And  Faith's  white  blossoms  never  wave 
To  the  soft  breath  of  Memory's  sighs  ;  — 
Which  sent  a  spirit  marred  and  stained, 
By  fiends  of  sin  possessed,  profaned, 
In  madness  and  in  blindness  stark, 
Into  the  silent,  unknown  dark  ? 
No,  —  from  the  wild  and  shrinking  dread 
With  which  he  saw  the  victim  led 

Beneath  the  dark  veil  which  divides 
Ever  the  living  from  the  dead, 

And  Nature's  solemn  secret  hides. 
The  man  of  prayer  can  only  draw 
New  reasons  for  his  bloody  law  ; 
New  faith  in  staying  Murder's  hand 
By  murder  at  that  Law's  command  ; 
New  reverence  for  the  gallows-rope, 
As  human  nature's  latest  hope  ; 
Last  relic  of  the  good  old  time, 
When  Power  found  license  for  its  crime, 
And  held  a  writhing  world  in  check 
By  that  fell  cord  about  its  neck  ; 
Stifled  Sedition's  rising  shout, 
Choked  the  young  breath  of  Freedom  out. 
And   timely  checked   the  words  which 

sprung 

From  Heresy's  forbidden  tongue  ; 
While  in  its  noose  of  terror  bound, 
The  Church  its  cherished  union  found, 
Conforming,  on  the  Moslem  plan, 
The  motley-colored  mind  of  man, 
Not  by  the  Koran  and  the  Sword, 
But  by  the  Bible  and  the  Cord  J 

VI. 

0  Thou  !  at  whose  rebuke  the  grave 
Back  to  warm  life  its  sleeper  gave, 
Beneath  whose  sad  and  tearful  glance 
The  cold  and  changed  countenance 
Broke  the  still  horror  of  its  trance, 
And,  waking,  saw  with  joy  above, 
A  brother's  face  of  tenderest  love  ; 
Thou,  unto  whom  the  blind  and  lame, 
The  sorrowing  and  the  sin-sick  came, 
And  from  thy  very  garment's  hem 
Drew  life  ivnd  healing  unto  them. 


104 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  "burden  of  thy  holy  faith 

Was  love  and  life,  not  hate  and  death, 

Man's  demon  ministers  of  pain, 

The  liends  of  his  revenge  were  sent 

From  thy  pure  Gospel's  element 
To  their  dark  home  again. 
Thy  name  is  Love  !     What,  then,  is  he, 

Who  in  that  name  the  gallows  rears, 
An  awful  altar  built  to  thee, 

With  sacrifice  of  blood  and  tears  ? 
0,  once  again  thy  healing  lay 

On  the  blind  eyes  which  knew  thee  not, 
And  let  the  light  of  thy  pure  day 

Melt  in  upon  his  darkened  thought. 
Soften  his  hard,  cold  heart,  and  show 

The  power  which  in  forbearance  lies, 
And  let  him  feel  that  mercy  now 

Is  better  than  old  sacrifice  ! 

VII. 

As  on  the  White  Sea's  charmed  shore, 

The  Parsee  sees  his  holy  hill 
With   dunnest  smoke-clouds   curtained 

o'er, 
Yet  knows  beneath  them,  evermore, 

The  low,  pale  fire  is  quivering  still  ; 
So,  underneath  its  clouds  of  sin, 

The  heart  of  man  retaineth  yet 
Gleams  of  its  holy  origin  ; 

And  half-quenched  stars  that  never  set, 
Dim  colors  of  its  faded  bow, 

And  early  beauty,  linger  there, 
And  o'er  its  wasted  desert  blow 

Faint  breathings  of  its  morning  air, 
0,  never  yet  upon  the  scroll 
Of  the  sin-stained,  but  priceless  soul, 

Hath  Heaven  inscribed  "  DESPAIR  !  " 
Cast  not  the  clouded  gem  away, 
Quench  not  the  dim  but  living  ray,  — 

My  brother  man,  Beware  ! 
With   that  deep  voice  which  from  the 

skies 
Forbade  the  Patriarch's  sacrifice, 

God's  angel  cries,  FORBEAR  ! 


RANDOLPH   OF   ROANOKE. 

O  MOTHER  EARTH  !  upon  thy  lap 

Thy  weary  ones  receiving, 
And  o'er  them,  silent  as  a  dream, 

Thy  grassy  mantle  weaving, 
Fold  softly  in  thy  long  embrace 

That  heart  so  worn  and  broken, 
And  cool  its  pulse  of  fire  beneath 

Thy  shadows  old  and  oaken. 


Shut  out  from  him  the  bitter  word 

And  serpent  hiss  of  scorning  ; 
Nor  let  the  storms  of  yesterday 

Disturb  his  quiet  morning. 
Breathe  over  him  forgetfulness 

Of  all  save  deeds  of  kindness, 
And,  save  to  smiles  of  grateful  eyes, 

Press  down  his  lids  in  blindness. 

There,  where  with  living  ear  and  eye 

He  heard  Potomac's  flowing, 
And,  through  his  tall  ancestral  trees, 

Saw  autumn's  sunset  glowing, 
He  sleeps,  —  still  looking  to  the  west, 

Beneath  the  dark  wood  shadow, 
As  if  he  still  would  see  the  sun 

Sink  down  on  wave  and  meadow. 

Bard,  Sage,  and  Tribune  !  —  in  himself 

All  moods  of  mind  contrasting,  — 
The  tenderest  wail  of  human  woe, 

The  scorn-like  lightning  blasting  ; 
The  pathos  which  from  rival  eyes 

Unwilling  tears  could  summon, 
The  stinging  taunt,  the  fiery  burst 

Of  hatred  scarcely  human  ! 

Mirth,  sparkling  like  a  diamond  shower, 

From  lips  of  life-long  sadness  ; 
Clear  picturings  of  majestic  thought 

Upon  a  ground  of  madness  ; 
And  over  all  Romance  and  Song 

A  classic  beauty  throwing, 
And  laurelled  Clio  at  his  side 

Her  storied  pages  showing. 

All  parties  feared  him  :  each  in  turn 

Beheld  its  schemes  disjointed, 
As  right  or  left  his  fatal  glance 

And  spectral  finger  pointed. 
Sworn  foe  of  Cant,  he  smote  it  down 

With  trenchant  wit  unsparing, 
And,  mocking,  rent  with  ruthless  hand 

The  robe  Pretence  was  wearing. 

Too  honest  or  too  proud  to  feign 

A  love  he  never  cherished, 
Beyond  Virginia's  border  line 

His  patriotism  perished. 
While  others  hailed  in  distant  skies 

Our  eagle's  dusky  pinion, 
He  only  saw  the  mountain  bird 

Stoop  o'er  his  Old  Dominion  ! 

Still  through  each   change  of   fortune 

strange, 
Racked  nerve,  and  brain  all  burning, 


DEMOCRACY. 


105 


His  loving  faith  in  Motherland 
Knew  never  shade  of  turning  ; 

By  Britain's  lakes,  by  Neva's  wave, 
Whatever  sky  was  o'er  him, 

He  heard  her  rivers'  rushing  sound, 
Her  hlue  peaks  rose  before  him. 

He  held  his  slaves,  yet  made  withal 

No  false  and  vain  pretences, 
Nor  paid  a  lying  priest  to  seek 

For  Scriptural  defences. 
His  harshest  words  of  proud  rebuke, 

His  bitterest  taunt  and  scorning, 
Fell  fire-like  on  the  Northern  brow 

That  bent  to  him  in  fawning. 

He  held  his  slaves  ;  yet  kept  the  while 

His  reverence  for  the  Human  ; 
In  the  dark  vassals  of  his  will 

He  saw  but  Man  and  Woman  ! 
No  hunter  of  God's  outraged  poor 

His  Roanoke  valley  entered  ; 
No  trader  in  the  souls  of  men 

Across  his  threshold  ventured. 

And  when  the  old  and  wearied  man 

Lay  down  for  his  last  sleeping, 
And  at  his  side,  a  slave  no  more, 

His  brother-man  stood  weeping, 
His  latest  thought,  his  latest  breath, 

To  Freedom's  duty  giving, 
With  failing  tongue  and  trembling  hand 

The  dying  blest  the  living. 

0,  never  bore  his  ancient  State 

A  truer  son  or  braver  ! 
None  trampling  with  a  calmer  scorn 

On  foreign  hate  or  favor. 
He  knew  her  faults,  yet  never  stooped 

His  proud  and  manly  feeling 
To  poor  excuses  of  the  wrong 

Or  meanness  of  concealing. 

But  none  beheld  with  clearer  eye 

The  plague-spot  o'er  her  spreading, 
None  heard    more    sure    the   steps    of 
Doom 

Along  her  future  treading. 
For  her  as  for  himself  he  spake, 

When,  his  gaunt  frame  upbracing, 
He  traced  with  dying  hand  ' '  REMORSE  '. " 

And  perished  in  the  tracing. 

As  from  the  grave  where  Henry  sleeps, 
From  Vernon's  weeping  willow, 

A.nd  from  the  grassy  pall  which  hides 
The  Sage  of  Montlcello, 


So  from  the  leaf-strewn  burial-stone 
Of  Randolph's  lowly  dwelling, 

Virginia  !  o'er  thy  land  of  slaves 
A  warning  voice  is  swelling  ! 

And  hark  !  from  thy  deserted  fields 

Are  sadder  warnings  spoken, 
From  quenched  hearths,  where  thy  ei> 
iled  sons 

Their  household  gods  have  broken. 
The  curse  is  on  thee,  —  wolves  for  men* 

And  briers  for  corn-sheaves  giving  ! 
0,  more  than  all  thy  dead  renowa 

Were  now  one  hero  living  ! 


DEMOCRACY. 

All  things  whatsoever  ye  would  that  mett 
should  do  to  you,  do  ye  even  so  to  them. — 
Matthew  vii.  12. 

BEARER  of  Freedom's  holy  light, 
Breaker  of  Slavery's  chain  and  rod, 

The  foe  of  all  which  pains  the  sight, 
Or  wounds  the  generous  ear  of  God  ! 

Beautiful  yet  thy  temples  rise, 

Though    there     profaning    gifts    are 
thrown  ; 

And  fires  unkindled  of  the  skies 
Are  glaring  round  thy  altar-stone. 

Still    sacred,  —  though    thy    name    be 

breathed 

By  those  whose  hearts  thy  truth  de 
ride  ; 
And  garlands,   plucked  from  thee,   are 

wreathed 
Around  the  haughty  brows  of  Pride. 

0,  ideal  of  my  boyhood's  time  ! 

The  faith  in  which  my  father  stood, 
Even  when  the  sons  of  Lust  and  Crime 

Had  stained  thy  peaceful  courts  with 
blood  ! 

Still  to  those  courts  my  footsteps  turn, 
For  through  the  mists  which  darken 
there, 

I  see  the  flame  of  Freedom  burn,  — 
The  Kebla  of  the  patriot's  prayer  ! 

The  generous  feeling,  pure  and  warm, 
Which  owns  the  rights  of  all  divine,  — • 

The  pitying  heart,  — the  helping  arm,  — • 
The  prompt  self-sacrifice,  —  are  thine. 


106 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Beneath  thy  broad,  impartial  eye, 
How  fade  the  lines  of  caste  and  birth  ! 

How  equal  in  their  suffering  lie 
The  groaning  multitudes  of  earth  ! 

Still  to  a  stricken  brother  true, 

Whatever  clime  hath  nurtured  him  ; 

As  stooped  to  heal  the  wounded  Jew 
The  worshipper  of  Gerizim. 

By  misery  unrepelled,  unawed 

By  pomp  or  power,  thou  seest  a  MAN 

In  prince  or  peasant,  —  slave  or  lord,  — 
Pale  priest,  or  swarthy  artisan. 

Through  all  disguise,   form,    place,    or 
name, 

Beneath  the  flaunting  robes  of  sin, 
Through  poverty  and  squalid  shame, 

Thou  lookest  on  tlic  man  within. 

On  man,  as  man,  retaining  yet, 

Howe'er  debased,  and  soiled,  and  dim, 

The  crown  upon  his  forehead  set,  — 
The  immortal  gift  of  God  to  him. 

And  there  is  reverence  in  thy  look  ; 

For  that  frail  form  which  mortals  wrear 
The  Spirit  of  the  Holiest  took, 

And  veiled  his  perfect  brightness  there. 

Not  from  the  shallow  babbling  fount 
Of  vain  philosophy  thou  art  ; 

He  who  of  old  on  Syria's  mount 

Thrilled,  warmed,  by  turns,  the  lis 
tener's  heart, 

In  holy  words  which  cannot  die, 

In  thoughts  which  angels  leaned  to 
know, 

Proclaimed  thy  message  from  on  high,  — 
Thy  mission  to  a  world  of  woe. 

That  voice's  echo  hath  not  died  ! 

From  the  blue  lake  of  Galilee, 
And  Tabor's  lonely  mountain-side, 

It  calls  a  struggling  world  to  thee. 

Thy  name  and  watchword  o'er  this  land 
]  hear  in  every  breeze  that  stirs, 

And  round  a  thousand  altars  stand 
Thy  banded  party  worshippers. 

Not  to  these  altars  of  a.  day, 

At  party's  call,  my  gift  I  bring  ; 

But  on  thy  olden  shrine  I  lay 
A  freeman's  dearest  offering  : 


The  voiceless  utterance  of  his  will,  — 
His  pledge  to  Freedom  and  to  Truth, 

That  manhood's  heart  remembers  still 
The  homage  of  his  generous  youth. 

Election  Day,  1843. 

TO   ftONGE. 

STRIKE    home,    strong  -  hearted    mnn  f. 

Down  to  the  root 

Of  old  oppression  sink  the  Saxon  steel. 
Thy  work  is  to  hew  down.     In  God's 

name  then 

Put  nerve  into  thy  task.    Let  other  men 
Plant,    as  they   may,    that  better   tree 

whose  fruit 
The  wounded  bosom  of  the  Church  shall 

heal. 
Be  thou   the   image-breaker.     Let   thy 

blows 

Fall  heavy  as  the  Suabian's  iron  hand, 
On  crown  or  crosier,  which  shall  inter 
pose 

Between  thee  and  the  weal  of  Father 
land. 
Leave  creeds  to  closet  idlers.     First  of 

all, 
Shake  thou  all  German  dream-land  with 

the  fall 

Of  that  accursed  tree,  whose  evil  trunk 
Was  spared  of  old  by  Erfurt's  stalwart 

monk. 
Fight   not   with   ghosts   and    shadows. 

Let  us  hear 

The  snap  of  chain-links.     Let  our  glad 
dened  ear 
Catch   the   pale   prisoner's  welcome,  as 

the  light 
Follows  thy  axe-stroke,  through  his  cell 

of  night. 
Be  faithful  to  both  worlds  ;  nor  think  to 

feed 
Earth's  starving  millions  with  the  husks 

of  creed. 
Servant  of  Him  whose  mission  high  and 

holy 
Was  to  the  wronged,  the  sorrowing,  and 

the  lowly, 
Thrust  not  his  Eden  promise  from  OUT 

sphere, 
Distant  and  dim  beyond  the  blue  sky's 

span  ; 
Like  him  of  Patmos,  see  it,  now   and 

here,  — 
The    New    Jerusalem    comes   down    to 

man  ! 


CHALKLEY   HALL. 


107 


Be  warned  by  Luther's  error.     Nor  like 

him, 
When  the  roused  Teuton  dashes  from  his 

limb 

The  rusted  chain  of  ages,  help  to  bind 
His  hands  for  whom  thou  claim'st  the 

freedom  of  the  mind  ! 


CHALKLEY   HALL.3** 

How  bland  and  sweet  the  greeting  of 

this  breeze 
To  him  who  flies 
From    crowded    street   and  red    wall's 

weary  gleam, 

Till  far  behind  him  like  a  hideous  dream 
The  close  dark  city  lies  ! 

Here,  while  the  market  murmurs,  while 

men  throng 
The  marble  floor 
Of  Mammon's  altar,  from  the  crush  and 

din 

Of  the  world's  madness  let  me  gather  in 
My  better  thoughts  once  more. 

0,  once  again  revive,  while  on  my  ear 

The  cry  of  Gain 

And  low  hoarse  hum  of  Traffic  die  away, 
Ye  blessed  memories  of  my  early  day 

Like  sere  grass  wet  with  rain  !  — 

Once  more  let  God's  green  earth  and 

sunset  air 

Old  feelings  waken  ; 
Through  weary  years  of  toil  and  strife 

and  ill, 

0,  let  me  feel  that  my  good  angel  still 
Hath  not  his  trust  forsaken. 

And  well  do  time  and  place  befit  my 

mood  : 

Beneath  the  arms 
Of  this  embracing  wood,  a  good  man 

made 
His  home,  like  Abraham  resting  in  the 

shade 
Of  Mamre's  lonely  palms. 

Here,  rich  with  autumn  gifts  of  count 
less  years, 
The  virgin  soil 
Turned  from  the  share  he  guided,  and 

in  rain 
And  summer  sunshine  throve  the  fruits 

and  grain 
Which  blessed  his  honest  toil. 


Here,  from  his  voyages  on  the  stormy 

seas, 

Weary  and  worn, 
He   came  to  meet  his  children  and  to 

bless 

The  Giver  of  all  good  in  thankfulness 
And  praise  for  his  return. 

And  here  his  neighbors  gathered  in  tc 

greet 

Their  friend  again, 
Safe  from  the  wave  and  the  destroying 


Which  reap  untimely  green  Bermuda's 

vales, 
And  vex  the  Carib  main. 

To  hear  the  good  man  tell  of  simple  truth, 

Sown  in  an  hour 

Of  weakness  in  some  far-off  Indian  isle, 
From  the  parched  bosom  of  a  barren 
soil, 

Raised  up  in  life  and  power  : 

How  at  those  gatherings  in  Barbadian 

vales, 

A  tendering  love 
Came  o'er  him,  like  the  gentle  rain  from 

heaven, 
And  words  of  fitness  to  his  lips  were 

given, 
And  strength  as  from  above  : 

How   the   sad   captive  listened  to  the 

Word, 

Until  his  chain 
Grew  lighter,  and  his  wounded  spirit 

felt 

The  healing  balm  of  consolation  melt 
Upon  its  life-long  pain  : 

How  the  armed  warrior  sat  him  down  to 

hear 

Of  Peace  and  Truth, 
And  the  proud    ruler  and  his   Creole 

dame, 
Jewelled  and  gorgeous  in  her  beauty 

came, 
And  fair  and  bright-eyed  youth. 

0,    far  away   beneath   New  England's 

sky, 

Even  when  a  boy, 
Following  my  plough  by  Merrimack's 

green  shore, 

His  simple  record  I  have  pondered  o'er 
With  deep  and  quiet  joy. 


108 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


And  hence  this  scene,  in  sunset  glory 

warm,  — 
Its  woods  around, 
Its  still  stream  winding  on  in  light  and 

shade, 
Its  soft,  green  meadows  and  its  upland 

glade,  — 
To  me  is  holy  ground. 

And    dearer    far    than    haunts    where 

Genius  keeps 
His  vigils  still  ; 
Than  that  where  Avon's  son  of  song  is 

laid, 
Of  Vaucluse  hallowed  by  its  Petrarch's 

shade, 
Or  Virgil's  laurelled  hill. 

To  the  gray  wralls  of  fallen  Paraclete, 

To  Juliet's  urn, 

Fair  Arno  and  Sorrento's  orange  -grove, 
Where  Tasso  sang,  let  young  Romance 
and  Love 

Like  brother  pilgrims  turn. 

But  here  a  deeper  and  serener  charm 

To  all  is  given  ; 
And  blessed  memories  of  the  faithful 

dead 
O'er  wood  and  vale  and  meadow-stream 

have  shed 
The  holy  hues  of  Heaven  ! 


TO  J.   P. 

NOT  as  a  poor  requital  of  the  joy 

"With  which  my  childhood  heard  that 

lay  of  thine, 

"Which,  like  an  echo  of  the  song  divine 
At  Bethlehem  breathed  above  the  Holy 

Boy, 

Bore  to  my  ear  the  Airs  of  Palestine,  — 
Not  to  the  poet,  but  the  man  I  bring 
In  friendship's  fearless  trust  my  offering  : 
How  much  it  lacks  I  feel,  and  thou  wilt 

see, 
Yet  well  I  know  that  thou  hast  deemed 

with  me 
Life   all   too  earnest,  and  its   time  too 

short 
For   dreamy  ease  and   Fancy's  graceful 

sport ; 
And  girded  for  thy  constant  strife  with 

wrong, 
Like     Nehemiah     fighting     while     he 

wrought 


The  broken  walls  of  Zion,  even  thy 

song 

Hath   a  rude   martial   tone,  a  blow   in 
every  thought ! 


THE  CYPRESS-TREE  OF  CEYLON. 

[IBN  BATUTA,  the  celebrated  Mussulman  trav 
eller  of  the  fourteenth  century,  speaks  of  a  cy 
press-tree  in  Ceylon,  universally  held  sacred  by 
the  natives,  the  leaves  of  which  were  said  to  fall 
only  at  certain  intervals,  and  he  who  had  the 
happiness  to  find  and  eat  one  of  them  was  re 
stored,  at  once,  to  youth  and  vigor.  The  trav 
eller  saw  several  venerable  JOGEES,  or  saints,  sit 
ting  silent  and  motionless  under  the  tree,  pa 
tiently  awaiting  the  falling  of  a  leaf.] 

THEY  sat  in  silent  watchfulness 
The  sacred  cypress-tree  about, 

And,  from  beneath  old  wrinkled  brows, 
Their  failing  eyes  looked  out. 

Gray  Age  and  Sickness  waiting  there 
Through   weary  night   and   lingering 
day,  — 

Grim  as  the  idols  at  their  side, 
And  motionless  as  they. 

Unheeded  in  the  boughs  above 

The  song  of  Ceylon  s  birds  was  sweet ; 

Unseen  of  them  the  island  flowers 
Bloomed  brightly  at  their  feet. 

O'er  them  the  tropic  night-storm  swept, 
The  thunder  crashed  on  rock  and  hill ; 

The  cloud-fire  on  their  eyeballs  blazed, 
Yet  there  they  waited  still ! 

What  was  the  world  without  to  them  ? 

The  Moslem's  sunset-call,  —  the  dance 
Of  Ceylon's  maids,  —  the  passing  gleam 

Of  battle-nag  and  lance  ? 

They  waited  for  that  falling  leaf 

Of  which  the  wandering  Jogees  sing  : 

Which  lends  once  more  to  wintry  age 
The  greenness  of  its  spring. 

0,  if  these  poor  and  blinded  ones 
In  trustful  patience  wait  to  feel 

O'er  torpid  pulse  and  failing  limb 
A  youthful  freshness  steal ; 

Shall  we,  who  sit  beneath  that  Tree 
Whose  healing  leaves  of  life  are  shed, 

In  answer  to  the  breath  of  prayer, 
Upon  the  waiting  head ; 


TO 


109 


Not  to  restore  our  failing  forms, 

And  build  the  spirit's  broken  shrine, 

But  on  the  fainting  SOUL  to  shed 
A  light  and  life  divine  ; 

Shall  we  grow  weary  in  our  watch, 
And  murmur  at  the  long  delay  ? 

Impatient  of  our  Father's  time 
And  his  appointed  way  ? 

Or  shall  the  stir  of  outward  things 
Allure  and  claim  the  Christian's  eye, 

When  on  the  heathen  watcher's  ear 
Their  powerless  murmurs  die  ? 

Alas  !  a  deeper  test  of  faith 

Than  prison  cell  or  martyr's  stake, 

The  self-abasing  watchfulness 
Of  silent  prayer  may  make. 

"We  gird  us  bravely  to  rebuke 

Our  erring  brother  in  the  wrong,  — 

And  in  the  ear  of  Pride  and  Power 
Our  warning  voice  is  strong. 

Easier  to  smite  with  Peter's  sword 
Than  "watch  one  hour  "  in  humbling 

prayer. 
Life's  "great  things,"  like  the  Syrian 

lord, 
Our  hearts  can  do  and  dare. 

But  oh  !  we  shrink  from  Jordan's  side, 
From  waters  which  alone  can  save  ; 

And  murmur  for  Abana's  banks 
And  Pharpar's  brighter  wave. 

0  Thou,  who  in  the  garden's  shade 
Didst  wake  thy  weary  ones  again, 

Who  slumbered  at  that  fearful  hour 
Forgetful  of  thy  pain  ; 

Bend  o'er  us  now,  as  over  them, 
Arid  set  our  sleep-bound  spirits  free, 

Nor  leave  us  slumbering  in  the  watch 
Our  souls  should  keep  with  Thee  ! 


A  DREAM  OF   SUMMER. 

BLAND  as  the  morning  breath  of  June 

The  southwest  breezes  play  ; 
And,  through  its  haze,  the  winter  noon 

Seems  warm  as  summer's  day. 
The  snow-plumed  Angel  of  the  North 

Has  dropped  his  icy  spear  ; 
Again  the  mossy  earth  looks  forth, 

Again  the  streams  gush  clear. 


The  fox  his  hillside  cell  forsakes, 

The  muskrat  leaves  his  nook, 
The  bluebird  in  the  meadow  brakes 

Is  singing  with  the  brook. 
"  Bear  up,  0  Mother  Nature  !  "  cry 

Bird,  breeze,  and  streamlet  free  ; 
"  Our  winter  voices  prophesy 

Of  summer  days  to  thee  !  " 

So,  in  those  winters  of  the  soul, 

By  bitter  blasts  and  drear 
O'erswept  from  Memory's  frozen  pole, 

Will  sunny  days  appear. 
Reviving  Hope  and  Faith,  they  show 

The  soul  its  living  powers, 
And  how  beneath  the  winter's  snow 

Lie  germs  of  summer  flowers  ! 

The  Night  is  mother  of  the  Day, 

The  Winter  of  the  Spring, 
And  ever  upon  old  Decay 

The  greenest  mosses  cling. 
Behind  the  cloud  the  starlight  lurks, 

Through  showers  the  sunbeams  fall ; 
For  God,  who  loveth  all  his  works, 

Has  left  his  Hope  with  all  ! 
1th  1st  month,  1847. 


TO 


WITH   A   COPY  OF   WOOLMAN  S  JOURNAL. 

"  Get    the    writings    of  John    Woolman   bj 
heart."  —  Essays  of  Elia. 

MAIDEN  !  with  the  fair  brown  tresses 
Shading  o'er  thy  dreamy  eye, 

Floating  on  thy  thoughtful  forehead 
Cloud  wreaths  of  its  sky. 

Youthful  years  and  maiden  beauty, 
Joy  with  them  should  still  abide,  — 

Instinct  take  the  piace  of  Duty, 

Love,  not  Reason,  guide.  j 

Ever  in  the  New  rejoicing, 

Kindly  beckoning  back  the  Old, 

Turning,  with  the  gift  of  Midas, 
All  things  into  gold. 

And  the  passing  shades  of  sadness 
Wearing  even  a  welcome  guise, 

As,  when  some  bright  lake  lies  open 
To  the  sunny  skies, 

Every  wing  of  bird  above  it, 
Every  light  cloud  floating  on, 


110 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Glitters  like  that  flashing  mirror 
In  the  self-same  sun. 

But  upon  thy  youthful  forehead 
Something  like  a  shadow  lies  ; 

And  a  serious  soul  is  looking 
From  thy  earnest  eyes. 

With  an  early  introversion, 

Through  the  forms  of  outward  things, 
Seeking  for  the  subtle  essence, 

And  the  hidden  springs. 

Deeper  than  the  gilded  surface 
Hath  thy  wakeful  vision  seen, 

Farther  than  the  narrow  present 
Have  thy  journeyings  been. 

fliou  hast  midst  Life's  empty  noises 
Heard  the  solemn  steps  of  Time, 

A-nd  the  low  mysterious  voices 
Of  another  clime. 

(ill  the  mystery  of  Being 
Hath  upon  thy  spirit  pressed,  — 

Thoughts  which,  like  the  Deluge  wan 
derer, 
Find  no  place  of  rest  : 

That  which  mystic  Plato  pondered, 
That  which  Zeno  heard  with  awe, 

And  the  star-rapt  Zoroaster 
In  his  night-watch  saw. 

From  the  doubt  and  darkness  springing 

Of  the  dim,  uncertain  Past, 
Moving  to  the  dark  still  shadows 

O'er  the  Future  cast, 

Early  hath  Life's  mighty  question 
Thrilled  within  thy  heart  of  youth, 

With  a  deep  and  strong  beseeching  : 
WHAT  and  WHERE  is  TRUTH  ? 

Hollow  creed  and  ceremonial, 
Whence  the  ancient  life  hath  fled, 

Idle  faith  unknown  to  action, 
Dull  and  cold  and  dead. 

Oracles,  whose  wire-worked  meanings 
Only  wake  a  quiet  scorn,  — 

Not  from  these  thy  seeking  spirit 
Hath  its  answer  drawn. 

But,  like  some  tired  child  at  even, 
On  thy  mother  Nature's  breast, 

Thou,  methinks,  art  vainly  seeking 
Truth,  and  peace,  and  rest. 


O'er  that  mother's  rugged  features 
Thou  art  throwing  Fancy's  veil, 

Light  and  soft  as  woven  moonbeams, 
Beautiful  and  frail  ! 

O'er  the  rough  chart  of  Existence, 
Kocks  of  sin  and  wastes  of  woe, 

Soft  airs  breathe,  andgreen  leaves  tremble, 
And  cool  fountains  flow. 

And  to  thee  an  answer  cometh 
From  the  earth  and  from  the  sky, 

And  to  thee  the  hills  and  waters 
And  the  stars  reply. 

But  a  soul-sufficing  answer 

Hath  no  outward  origin  ; 
More  than  Nature's  many  voices 

May  be  heard  within. 

Even  as  the  great  Augustine 

Questioned  earth  and  sea  and  sky,40 

And  the  dusty  tomes  of  learning 
And  old  poesy. 

But  his  earnest  spirit  needed 

More  than  outward  Nature  taught,  -> 
More  than  blest  the  poet's  vision 

Or  the  sage's  thought. 

Only  in  the  gathered  silence 
Of  a  calm  and  waiting  frame 

Light  and  wisdom  as  from  Heaven 
To  the  seeker  came. 

Not  to  ease  and  aimless  quiet 
Doth  that  inward  answer  tend, 

But  to  works  of  love  and  duty 
As  our  being's  end, — 

Not  to  idle  dreams  and  trances, 
Length  of  face,  and  solemn  tone. 

But  to  Faith,  in  daily  striving 
And  performance  shown. 

Earnest  toil  and  strong  endeavor 

Of  a  spirit  which  within 
Wrestles  with  familiar  evil 

And  besetting  sin  ; 

And  without,  with  tireless  vigor, 
Steady  heart,  and  weapon  strong, 

In  the  power  of  truth  assailing 
Every  form  of  wrong. 

Guided  thus,  how  passing  lovely 
Is  the  track  of  WOOLMAN'S  feet  J 


LEGGETT'S  MONUMENT. 


Ill 


And  his  brief  and  simple  record 
How  serenely  sweet  ! 

O'er  life's  humblest  duties  throwing 
Light  the  earthling  never  knew, 

Freshening  all  its  dark  waste  places 
As  with  Hermon's  dew. 

All  which  glows  in  Pascal's  pages,  — 
All  which  sainted  Guion  sought, 

Or  the  blue-eyed  German  Rahel 
Half-unconscious  taught  :  — 

Beauty,  such  as  Goethe  pictured, 
Such  as  Shelley  dreamed  of,  shed 

Living  warmth  and  starry  brightness 
Round  that  poor  man's  head. 

Not  a  vain  and  cold  ideal, 

Not  a  poet's  dream  alone, 
But  a  presence  warm  and  real, 

Seen  and  felt  and  known. 

When  the  red  right-hand  of  slaughter 
Moulders  with  the  steel  it  swung, 

When  the  name  of  seer  and  poet 
Dies  on  Memory's  tongue, 

All  bright  thoughts  and  pure  shall  gather 
Round  that  meek  and  suffering  one, — 

Glorious,  like  the  seer- seen  angel 
Standing  in  the  sun  ! 

Take  the  good  man's  book  and  ponder 
What  its  pages  say  to  thee,  — 

Blessed  as  the  hand  of  healing 
May  its  lesson  be. 

If  it  only  serves  to  strengthen 
Yearnings  for  a  higher  good, 

For  the  fount  of  living  waters 
And  diviner  food  ; 

If  the  pride  of  human  reason 
Feels  its  meek  and  still  rebuke, 


Quailing  like  the  eye  of  Peter 
From  the  Just  One's  look  !  — 

If  with  readier  ear  thou  heedest 
What  the  Inward  Teacher  saith, 

Listening  with  a  willing  spirit 
And  a  childlike  faith,  — 

Thou  mayst  live  to  bless  the  giver. 
Who,  himself  but  frail  and  weak. 

Would  at  least  the  highest  welfare 
Of  another  seek  ; 

And  his  gift,  though  poor  and  lowly 
It  may  seem  to  other  eyes, 

Yet  may  prove  an  angel  holy 
In  a  pilgrim's  guise. 


LEGGETT'S  MONUMENT. 

"  Ye  build  the  tombs  of  the  prophets." 

Holy  Writ. 

YES,  —  pile  the  marble  o'er  him  !     It  is 

well 
That  ye  who  mocked  him  in  his  long 

stern  strife, 

And  planted  in  the  pathway  of  his  life 
The  ploughshares  of  your  hatred  hot 

from  hell, 
Who  clamored  down  the  bold  reformer 

when 

He  pleaded  for  his  captive  fellow-men, 
Who  spurned  him  in  the  market-place, 

and  sought 
Within  thy  walls,  St.  Tammany,  to 

bind 
In   party   chains  the  free   and  honest 

thought, 

JThe  angel  utterance  of  an  upright  mind, 
Well  is  it  now  that  o'er  his  grave  ye  rais« 
The  stony  tribute  of  your  tardy  praise, 
For  not  alone  that  pile  shall  tell  to  Famo 
Of  the  brave  heart  beneath,  but  of  the 
builders'  shame  ! 


112 


SONGS    OF   LABOE. 


SONGS    OF    LABOR, 

AND   OTHER  POEMS. 


DEDICATION. 

I  WOULD  the  gift  I  offer  here 

Might  graces  from  thy  favor  take, 
And,  seen  through   Friendship's  at 
mosphere, 

On  softened  lines  and  coloring,  wear 
The  unaccustomed  light  of  beauty,  for 
thy  sake. 

Few  leaves  of  Fancy's  spring  remain  : 

But  what  I  have  I  give  to  thee,  — 

The  o'er-sunned  bloom  of  summer's 

plain, 

Ar.d  paler  flowers,  the  latter  rain 
Cal7  j  from  the  westering  slope  of  life's 
autumnal  lea. 

Above  the  fallen  groves  of  green, 
Where    youth's    enchanted     forest 

stood, 

Dry  root  and  mossed  trunk  between, 
A  sober  after-growth  is  seen, 
As  springs  the  pine  Avhere  falls  the  gay- 
leafed  maple  wood  ! 

Yet  birds  will  sing,  and  breezes  play 

Their  leaf-harps  in  the  sombre  tree  ; 
And  through  the  bleak  and  wintry  day 
It  keeps  its  steady  green  alway,  — 
So,  even  my  after-thoughts  may  have  a 
charm  for  thee. 

Art's  perfect  forms  no  moral  need, 

And  beauty  is  its  own  excuse  ; 41 
But  for  the  dull  and  flowerless  weed 
Some  healing  virtue  still  must  plead, 
And  the  rough  ore  must  find  its  honors 
in  its  use. 

So  haply  these,  my  simple  lays 

Of  homely  toil,  may  serve  to  show 
The  orchard  bloom  and  tasselled  maize 
That  skirt  and  gladden  duty's  ways, 
The  unsung  beauty  hid  life's  common 
things  below. 

Haply  from  them  the  toiler,  bent 
Above  his  forge  or  plough,  may  gain, 


A  manlier  spirit  of  content, 
And  feel  that  life  is  wisest  spent 
Where  the  strong  working  hand  makes 
strong  the  working  brain. 

The  doom  which  to  the  guilty  pair 
Without  the  walls  of  Eden  came, 
Transforming  sinless  ease  to  care 
And  rugged  toil,  no  more  shall  bear 
The  burden  of  old  crime,  or  mark  of 
primal  shame. 

A  blessing  now,  —  a  curse  no  more  ; 
Since  He,  whose  name  we  breathe 

with  awe, 

The  coarse  mechanic  vesture  wore,  — 
A  poor  man  toiling  with  the  poor, 
In  labor,  as  in  prayer,  fulfilling  the  same 
law. 


THE   SHIP-BUILDERS. 

THE  sky  is  ruddy  in  the  east, 

The  earth  is  gray  below, 
And,  spectral  in  the  river-mist, 

The  ship's  white  timbers  show. 
Then  let  the  sounds  of  measured  stroke 

And  grating  saw  begin  ; 
The  broad-axe  to  the  gnarled  oak, 

The  mallet  to  the  pin  ! 

Hark  !— roars  the  bellows,  blast  on  blast, 

The  sooty  smithy  jars, 
And  fire-sparks,  rising  far  and  fast, 

Are  fading  with  the  stars. 
All  day  for  us  the  smith  shall  stand 

Beside  that  flashing  forge  ; 
All  day  for  us  his  heavy  hand 

The  groaning  anvil  scourge. 

From  far-off  hills,  the  panting  team 

For  us  is  toiling  near  ; 
For  us  the  raftsmen  down  the  stream 

Their  island  barges  steer. 
Rings  out  for  us  the  axe-man's  stroke 

In  forests  old  and  still,  — 
For  us  the  century-circled  oak 

Falls  crashing  down  his  hill. 


THE    SHOEMAKERS. 


113 


Up  !  —  up  !  —  in  nobler  toil  than  ours 

No  craftsmen  bear  a  part  : 
We  make  of  Nature's  giant  powers 

The  slaves  of  human  Art. 
Lay  rib  to  rib  and  beam  to  beam, 

And  drive  the  treenails  free  ; 
Nor  faithless  joint  nor  yawning  seam 

Shall  tempt  the  searching  sea  ! 

Where'er  the  keel  of  our  good  ship 

The  sea's  rough  field  shall  plough,  — 
Where'er  her  tossing  spars  shall  drip 

With  salt-spray  caught  below,  — 
That  ship  must  heed  her  master's  beck, 

Her  helm  obey  his  hand. 
And  seamen  tread  her  reeling  deck 

As  if  they  trod  the  land. 

Her  oaken  ribs  the  vulture-beak 

Of  Northern  ice  may  peel  ; 
The  sunken  rock  and  coral  peak 

May  grate  along  her  keel ; 
And  know  we  well  the  painted  shell 

We  give  to  wind  and  wave, 
Must  float,  the  sailor's  citadel, 

Or  sink,  the  sailor's  grave  ! 

Ho  !  —  strike  away  the  bars  and  blocks, 

And  set  the  good  ship  free  ! 
Why  lingers  on  these  dusty  rocks 

The  young  bride  of  the  sea  ? 
Look  !  how  she  moves  adown  the  grooves, 

In  graceful  beauty  now  ! 
How  lowly  on  the  breast  she  loves 

Sinks  down  her  virgin  prow  ! 

God  bless  her  !  wheresoe'er  the  breeze 

Her  snowy  wing  shall  fan, 
Aside  the  frozen  Hebrides, 

Or  sultry  Hindostan  ! 
Where'er,  in  mart  or  on  the  main, 

With  peaceful  flag  unfurled, 
She  helps  to  wind  the  silken  chain 

Of  commerce  round  the  world  ! 

Speed  on  the  ship  !  —  But  let  her  bear 

No  merchandise  of  sin, 
No  groaning  cargo  of  despair 

Her  roomy  hold  within  ; 
No  Lethean  drug  for  Eastern  lands, 

Nor  poison-draught  for  ours  ; 
But  honest  fruits  of  toiling  hands 

And  Nature's  sun  and  showers. 

Be  hers  the  Prairie's  golden  grain, 

The  Desert's  golden  sand, 
The  clustered  fruits  of  sunny  Spain, 

The  spice  of  Morning-land  ! 
8 


Her  pathway  on  the  open  mam 
May  blessings  follow  free, 

And  glad  hearts  welcome  back  again 
Her  white  sails  from  the  sea  ! 


THE  SHOEMAKERS. 

Ho  !  workers  of  the  old  time  styled 

The  Gentle*  Craft  of  Leather  ! 
Young  brothers  of  the  ancient  guild, 

Stand  forth  once  more  together  ! 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  olden  merry  manner  ! 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  your  blazoned  banner  ! 

Rap,  rap  !  upon  the  well-worn  stone 

How  falls  the  polished  hammer  ! 
Rap,  rap  !  the  measured  sound  has  grown 

A  quick  and  merry  clamor. 
Now  shape  the  sole  !  now  deftly  curl 

The  glossy  vamp  around  it, 
And  bless  the  while  the  bright-eyed  girl 

Whose  gentle  fingers  bound  it ! 

For  you,  along  the  Spanish  main 

A  hundred  keels  are  ploughing  ; 
For  you,  the  Indian  on  the  plain 

His  lasso-coil  is  throwing  ; 
For  you,  deep  glens  with  hemlock  dark 

The  woodman's  fire  is  lighting  ; 
For  you,  upon  the  oak's  gray  bark, 

The  woodman's  axe  is  smiting. 

For  you,  from  Carolina's  pine 

The  rosin-gum  is  stealing  ; 
For  you,  the  dark-eyed  Florentine 

Her  silken  skein  is  reeling  ; 
For  you,  the  dizzy  goatherd  roams 

His  rugged  Alpine  ledges ; 
For  you,  round  all  her  shepherd  homes, 

Bloom  England's  thorny  hedges. 

The  foremost  still,  by  day  or  night, 

On  moated  mound  or  heather, 
Where'er  the  need  of  trampled  right 

Brought  toiling  men  together  ; 
Where  the  free  burghers  from  the  wall 

Defied  the  mail-clad  master, 
Than  yours,  at  Freedom's  trumpet-call, 

No  craftsmen  rallied  faster. 

Let  foplings  sneer,  let  fools  deride,  — 

Ye  heed  no  idle  scorner  ; 
Freehands  and  hearts  are  still  your  pride. 

And  duty  done,  your  honor. 


114 


SONGS   OF   LABOK. 


Ye  dare  to  trust,  for  honest  fame, 

The  jury  Time  empanels, 
And  leave  to  truth  each  noble  name 

Which  glorifies  your  annals. 

Thy  songs,  Han  Sachs,  are  living  yet, 

In  strong  and  hearty  German  ; 
And  Bloomfield's  lay,  and  Gilford's  wit, 

And  patriot  fame  of  Sheynan  ; 
Still  from  his  book,  a  mystic  seer, 

The  soul  of  Behmen  teaches, 
And  England's  priestcraft  shakes  to  hear 

Of  Fox's  leathern  breeches. 

The  foot  is  yours  ;  where'er  it  falls, 

It  treads  your  well-wrought  leather, 
On  earthen  floor,  in  marble  halls, 

On  carpet,  or  on  heather. 
Still  there  the  sweetest  charm  is  found 

Of  matron  grace  or  vestal's, 
As  Hebe's  foot  bore  nectar  round 

Among  the  old  celestials  ! 

Eap,  rap  ! — your  stout  and  bluff  brogan, 

With  footsteps  slow  and  weary, 
May  wander  where  the  sky's  blue  span 

Shuts  down  upon  the  prairie. 
On  Beauty's  foot  your  slippers  glance, 

By  Saratoga's  fountains, 
Or  twinkle  down  the  summer  dance 

Beneath  the  Crystal  Mountains  ! 

The  red  brick  to  the  mason's  hand, 

The  brown  earth  to  the  tiller's, 
The  shoe  in  yours  shall  wealth  command, 

Like  fairy  Cinderella's  ! 
As  they  who  shunned  the  household  maid 

Beheld  the  crown  upon  her, 
So  all  shall  see  your  toil  repaid 

With  hearth  and  home  and  honor. 

Then  let  the  toast  be  freely  quaffed, 

In  water  cool  and  brimming,  — 
"  All  honor  to  the  good  old  Craft, 

Its  merry  men  and  women  !  " 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  old  time's  pleasant  manner  : 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  his  blazoned  banner  ! 

THE   DROVEKS. 

THROUGH  heat  and  cold,    and   shower 
and  sun, 

Still  onward  cheerly  driving  ! 
There  's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 

And  rest  alone  in  striving. 


But  see  !  the  day  is  closing  cool, 
The  woods  are  dim  before  us  ; 

The  white  fog  of  the  wayside  pool 
Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  footsore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
The  landlord  beckons  from  his  door, 

His  beechen  fire  is  glowing  ; 
These  ample  barns,  with  feed  in  store, 

Are  filled  to  overflowing. 

From  many  a  valley  frowned  across 

By  brows  of  rugged  mountains  ; 
From   hillsides  where,  through  spongy 
moss, 

Gush  out  the  river  fountains  ; 
From  quiet  farm-fields,  green  and  low, 

And  bright  with  blooming  clover  ; 
From  vales  of  corn  the  wandering  crow 

No  richer  hovers  over  ; 

Day  after  day  our  way  has  been, 

O'er  many  a  hill  and  hollow  ; 
By  lake  and  stream,  by  wood  and  glen, 

Our  stately  drove  we  follow. 
Through  dust-clouds  rising  thick  and  dun, 

As  smoke  of  battle  o'er  us, 
Their  white  horns  glisten  in  the  sun, 

Like  plumes  and  crests  before  us. 

We  see  them  slowly  climb  the  hill, 

As  slow  behind  it  sinking  ; 
Or,  thronging  close,  from  roadside  rill, 

Or  sunny  lakelet,  drinking. 
Now  crowding  in  the  narrow  road, 

In  thick  and  struggling  masses, 
They  glare  upon  the  teamster's  load, 

Or  rattling  coach  that  passes. 

Anon,  with  toss  of  horn  and  tail, 

And  paw  of  hoof,  and  bellow, 
They  leap  some  farmer's  broken  pale, 

O'er  meadow-close  or  fallow. 
Forth  comes  the  startled  goodman ;  forth 

Wife,  children,  house-dog,  sally, 
Till  once  more  on  their  dusty  path 

The  baffled  truants  rally. 

We  drive  no  starvelings,  scraggy  grown, 
Loose-legged,  and  ribbed  and  bony, 

Like  those  who  grind  their  noses  down 
On  pastures  bare  and  stony,  — 

Lank  oxen,  rough  as  Indian  dogs, 
And  cows  too  lean  for  shadows, 


THE  FISHERMEN. 


115 


Disputing  feebly  with  the  frogs 
The  crop  of  saw-grass  meadows  ! 

In  our  good  drove,  so  sleek  and  fair, 

No  bones  of  leanness  rattle  ; 
No  tottering  hide-bound  ghosts  are  there, 

Or  Pharaoh's  evil  cattle. 
Each  stately  beeve  bespeaks  the  hand 

That  fed  him  unrepining  ; 
The  fatness  of  a  goodly  land 

In  each  dun  hide  is  shining. 

We  've  sought  them  where,  in  warmest 
nooks, 

The  freshest  feed  is  growing, 
By  sweetest  springs  and  clearest  brooks 

Through  honeysuckle  flowing  ; 
Wherever  hillsides,  sloping  south, 

Are  bright  with  early  grasses, 
Or,  tracking  green  the  lowland's  drouth, 

The  mountain  streamlet  passes. 

But  now  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us, 
The  white  fog  of  the  wayside  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 
The  cricket  to  the  frog's  bassoon 

His  shrillest  time  is  keeping  ; 
The  sickle  of  yon  setting  moon 

The  meadow-mist  is  reaping. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  footsore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
To-morrow,  eastward  with  our  charge 

We  '11  go  to  meet  the  dawning, 
Ere  yet  the  pines  of  Kearsarge 

Have  seen  the  sun  of  morning. 

When  snow-flakes  o'er  the  frozen  earth, 

Instead  of  birds,  are  flitting  ; 
When    children    throng    the     glowing 
hearth, 

And  quiet  wives  are  knitting  ; 
While  in  the  fire-light  strong  and  clear 

Young  eyes  of  pleasure  glisten, 
To  tales  of  all  we  see  and  hear 

The  ears  of  home  shall  listen. 

By  many  a  Northern  lake  and  hill, 

From  many  a  mountain  pasture, 
Shall  Fancy  play  the  Drover  still, 

And  speed  the  long  night  faster. 
Then  let  us  on,  through  shower  and  sun, 

And  heat  and  cold,  be  driving  ; 
There 's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 

And  rest  alone  in  striving. 


THE   FISHERMEN. 

HURRAH  !  the  seaward  breezes 

Sweep  down  the  bay  amain  ; 
Heave  up,  my  lads,  the  anchor  ! 

Run  up  the  sail  again  ! 
Leave  to  the  lubber  landsmen 

The  rail- car  and  the  steed  ; 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed. 

From  the  hill-top  looks  the  steeple, 

And  the  lighthouse  from  the  sand  ; 
And  the  scattered  pines  are  waving 

Their  farewell  from  the  land. 
One  glance,  my  lads,  behind  us, 

For  the  homes  we  leave  one  sigh, 
Ere  we  take  the  change  and  chances 

Of  the  ocean  and  the  sky. 

NOAV,  brothers,  for  the  icebergs 

Of  frozen  Labrador, 
Floating  spectral  in  the  moonshine, 

Along  the  low,  black  shore  ! 
Where  like  snow  the  gannet's  feathers 

On  Brador's  rocks  are  shed, 
And  the  noisy  murr  are  flying, 

Like  black  scuds,  overhead  ; 

Where  in  mist  the  rock  is  hiding, 

And  the  sharp  reef  lurks  below, 
And  the  white  squall  smites  in  sum< 
mer, 

And  the  autumn  tempests  blow  ; 
Where,  through  gray  and  rolling  vapor, 

From  evening  unto  morn, 
A  thousand  boats  are  hailing, 

Horn  answering  unto  horn. 

Hurrah  !  for  the  Red  Island, 

With  the  white  cross  on  its  crown  ! 
Hurrah  !  for  Meccatina, 

And  its  mountains  bare  and  brown  ! 
Where  the  Caribou's  tall  antlers 

O'er  the  dwarf-wood  freely  toss, 
And  the  footstep  of  the  Mickmack 

Has  no  sound  upon  the  moss. 

There  we  '11  drop  our  lines,  and  gather 

Old  Ocean's  treasures  in, 
Where'er  the  mottled  mackerel 

Turns  up  a  steel-dark  fin. 
The  sea  's  our  field  of  harvest, 

Its  scaly  tribes  our  grain  ; 
We  '11  reap  the  teeming  waters 

As  at  home  they  reap  the  plain  ! 


116 


SONGS  OF  LABOR. 


Our  wet  hands  spread  the  carpet, 

And  light  the  hearth  of  home  ; 
From  our  fish,  as  in  the  old  time, 

The  silver  coin  shall  come. 
As  the  demon  iled  the  chamber 

Where  the  fish  of  Tobit  lay, 
So  oui's  from  all  our  dwellings 

Shall  frighten  Want  away. 

Though  the  mist  upon  our  jackets 

In  the  bitter  air  congeals, 
And  our  lines  wind  stiff  and  slowly 

From  off  the  frozen  reels  ; 
Though  the  fog  be  dark  around  us, 

And  the  storm  blow  high  and  loud, 
We  will  whistle  down  the  wild  Avind, 

And  laugh  beneath  the  cloud  ! 

In  the  darkness  as  in  daylight, 

On  the  water  as  on  land, 
God's  eye  is  looking  on  us, 

And  beneath  us  is  his  hand  ! 
Death  will  find  us  soon  or  later, 

On  the  deck  or  in  the  cot  ; 
And  we  cannot  meet  him  better 

Than  in  working  out  our  lot. 

Hurrah  !  —  hurrah  !  —  the  west-wind 

Comes  freshening  down  the  bay, 
The  rising  sails  are  filling,  — 

Give  way,  my  lads,  give  way  ! 
Leave  the  coward  landsman  clinging 

To  the  dull  earth,  like  a  weed,  — 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed  ! 


THE  HUSKERS. 

IT  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the 

long  autumnal  rain 
Had  left  the  summer  harvest-fields  all 

green  with  grass  again  ; 
The  first  sharp  frosts  had  fallen,  leaving 

all  the  woodlands  gay 
With  the  hues  of  summer's  rainbow,  or 

the  meadow-flowers  of  May. 

Through  a  thin,  dry  mist,  that  morning, 
the  sun  rose  broad  and  red, 

At  first  a  rayless  disk  of  fire,  he  bright 
ened  as  he  sped  ; 

Yet,  even  his  noontide  glory  fell  chas 
tened  and  subdued, 

On  the  cornfields  and  the  orchards,  and 
softly  pictured  wood. 


And  all  that  quiet  afternoon,  slow  slop. 

ing  to  the  night, 
He  wove  with  golden  shuttle  the  haze 

with  yellow  light  ; 
Slanting  through  the   painted  beeches, 

he  glorified  the  hill  ; 
And,  beneath  it,  pond  and  meadow  lay 

brighter,  greener  still. 

And  shouting  boys  in  woodland  haunts 

caught  glimpses  of  that  sky, 
Flecked  by  the  many-tinted  leaves,  and 

laughed,  they  knew  not  why  ; 
And  school-girls,  gay  with  aster-flowers, 

beside  the  meadow  brooks, 
Mingled  the  glow  of  autumn  with  the 

sunshine  of  sweet  looks. 

From  spire  and  barn  looked  westerly  the 

patient  weathercocks  ; 
But  even  the  birches  on  the  hill  stood 

motionless  as  rocks. 
No  sound  was  in  the  woodlands,  save  the 

squirrel's  dropping  shell, 
And  the  yellow  leaves  among  the  boughs, 

low  rustling  as  they  fell. 

The  summer  grains  were  harvested  ;  the 

stubble-fields  lay  dry, 
Where  June  winds  rolled,  in  light  and 

shade,  the  pale  green  waves  of  rye ; 
But  still,  on  gentle  hill-slopes,  in  valleys 

fringed  with  wood, 
Ungathered,   bleaching  in  the  sun,  the 

heavy  corn  crop  stood. 

Bent  low,  by  autumn's  wind  and  rain, 

through  husks  that,  dry  and  sere, 
Unfolded  from  their  ripened  charge,  shone 

out  the  yellow  ear  ; 
Beneath,  the   turnip   lay  concealed,  in 

many  a  verdant  fold, 
And  glistened  in  the  slanting  light  the 

pumpkin's  sphere  of  gold. 

There  wrought  the  busy  harvesters  ;  and 

many  a  creaking  wain 
Bore  slowly  to  the  long  barn-lloor  its  load 

of  husk  and  grain  ; 
Till  broad  and  red,  as  when  he  rose,  the 

sun  sank  down,  at  List, 
And  like  a  merry  guest's  farewell,  the 

day  in  brightness  passed. 

And  lo  !  as  through  the  western  pines,  on 
meadow,  stream,  and  pond, 

Flamed  the  red  radiance  of  a  sky,  set  all 
afire  beyond, 


THE   LUMBERMEN. 


117 


Slowly  o'er  the  eastern  sea-bluffs  a  milder 

glory  shone, 
Arid  the  sunset  and  the  moonrise  were 

mingled  into  one  ! 

As  thus  into  the  quiet  night  the  twilight 

lapsed  away, 
And  deeper  in  the  brightening  moon  the 

tranquil  shadows  lay  ; 
From  many  a  brown  old  farm-house,  and 

hamlet  without  name, 
Their  milking  and  their  home- tasks  done, 

the  merry  huskers  came. 

Swung  o'er  the  heaped-up  harvest,  from 

pitchforks  in  the  mow, 
Shone  dimly  down  the  lanterns  on  the 

pleasant  scene  below  ; 
The  growing  pile  of  husks  behind,  the 

golden  ears  before, 
And  laughing  eyes  and  busy  hands  and 

brown  cheeks  glimmering  o'er. 

Half  hidden  in  a  quiet  nook,  serene  of 

look  and  heart, 
Talking  their  old  times  over,  the  old  men 

sat  apart  ; 
While,  up  and  down  the  unhusked  pile, 

or  nestling  in  its  shade, 
At  hide-and-seek,  with  laugh  and  shout, 

the  happy  children  played. 

Urged   by  the  good  host's  daughter,  a 

maiden  young  and  fair, 
Lifting  to  light  her  sweet  blue  eyes  and 

pride  of  soft  brown  hair, 
The  master  of  the  village  school,  sleek  of 

hair  and  smooth  of  tongue, 
To  the  quaint  tune  of  some  old  psalm,  a 

husking-ballad  sung. 


THE  CORN-SONG. 

HEAP  high  the  farmer's  wintry  hoard  ! 

Heap  high  the  golden  com  ! 
No  richer  gift  has  Autumn  poured 

From  out  her  lavish  horn  ! 

Let  other  lands,  exulting,  glean 

The  apple  from  the  pine, 
The  orange  from  its  glossy  green, 

The  cluster  from  the  vine  ; 

We  better  love  the  hardy  gift 
Our  nigged  vales  bestow, 


To  cheer  us  when  the  storm  shall  drift 
Our  harvest-fields  with  snow. 

Through  vales  of  grass  and  meads  of 

flowers, 

Our  ploughs  their  furrows  made, 
While  on  the  hills  the  sun  and  show- 

ers 
Of  changeful  April  played. 

We  dropped    the    seed    o'er    hill    and 

plain, 

Beneath  the  sun  of  May, 
And    frightened    from    our    sprouting 

grain 
The  robber  crows  away. 

All  through  the  long,  bright  days  of 
June 

Its  leaves  grew  green  and  fair, 
And  waved  in  hot  midsummer's  noon 

Its  soft  and  yellow  hair. 

And  now,  with  autumn's  moonlit  eves, 

Its  harvest-time  has  come, 
We  pluck  away  the  frosted  leaves, 

And  bear  the  treasure  home. 

There,  richer  than  the  fabled  gift 

Apollo  showered  of  old, 
Fair  hands  the  broken  grain  shall  sitt, 

And  knead  its  meal  of  gold. 

Let  vapid  idlers  loll  in  silk 

Around  their  costly  board  ; 
Give  us  the  bowl  of  samp  and  milk, 

By  homespun  beauty  poured  ! 

Where'er  the  wide  old  kitchen  hearth 

Sends  up  its  smoky  curls, 
Who  will  not  thank  the  kindly  earth, 

And  bless  our  farmer  girls  ! 

Then  shame  on  all  the  proud  and  vain, 

Whose  folly  laughs  to  scorn 
The  blessing  of  our  hardy  grain, 

Our  wealth  of  golden  corn  ! 

Let  earth  withhold  her  goodly  root, 
,      Let  mildew  blight  the  rye, 
»  Give  to  the  worm  the  orchard's  fruit, 
The  wheat-field  to  the  fly  : 

But  let  the  good  old  crop  adorn 

The  hills  our  fathers  trod  ; 
Still  let  us,  for  his  golden  corn, 

Send  up  our  thanks  to  God  I 


118 


SONGS    OF   LABOE. 


THE  LUMBERMEN. 

WILDLY  round  our  woodland  quarters, 

Sad-voiced  Autumn  grieves  ; 
Thickly  down  these  swelling  waters 

Float  his  fallen  leaves. 
Through  the  tall  and  naked  timber, 

Column-like  and  old, 
Gleam  the  sunsets  of  November, 

From  their  skies  of  gold. 

O'er  us,  to  the  southland  heading, 

Screams  the  gray  wild-goose ; 
On  the  night-frost  sounds  the  treading 

Of  the  brindled  moose. 
Noiseless  creeping,  while  we  're  sleeping, 

Frost  his  task-work  plies  ; 
Soon,  his  icy  bridges  heaping, 

Shall  our  log-piles  rise. 

When,  with  sounds  of  smothered  thun 
der, 

On  some  night  of  rain, 
Lake  and  river  break  asunder 

Winter's  weakened  chain, 
Down  the  wild  March  flood  shall  bear 

them 

To  the  saw-mill's  wheel, 
Or  where  Steam,  the  slave,  shall  tear 

them 
With  his  teeth  of  steel. 

Be  it  starlight,  be  it  moonlight, 

In  these  vales  below, 
When  the  earliest  beams  of  sunlight 

Streak  the  mountain's  snow, 
Crisps  the  hoar-frost,  keen  and  early, 

To  our  hurrying  feet, 
And  the  forest  echoes  clearly 

All  our  blows  repeat. 

Where  the  crystal  Ambijejis 

Stretches  broad  and  clear, 
And  Millnoket's  pine-black  ridges 

Hide  the  browsing  deer  : 
Where,  through  lakes  and  wide  morasses, 

Or  through  rocky  walls, 
Swift  and  strong,  Penobscot  passes 

White  with  foamy  falls  ; 

Where,    through   clouds,   are    glimpses 
given 

Of  Katahdin's  sides,  — 
Rock  and  forest  piled  to  heaven, 

Torn  and  ploughed  by  slides  ! 
Far  below,  the  Indian  trapping, 

In  the  sunshine  warm  ; 


Far  above,  the  snow-cloud  wrapping 
Half  the  peak  in  storm  ! 

Where  are  mossy  carpets  better 

Than  the  Persian  weaves, 
And  than  Eastern  perfumes  sweeter 

Seem  the  fading  leaves  ; 
And  a  music  wild  and  solemn, 

From  the  pine-tree's  height, 
Rolls  its  vast  and  sea-like  volume 

On  the  wind  of  night  ; 

Make  we  here  our  camp  of  winter  ; 

And,  through  sleet  and  snow, 
Pitchy  knot  and  beechen  splinter 

On  our  hearth  shall  glow. 
Here,  with  mirth  to  lighten  duty, 

We  shall  lack  alone 
Woman's  smile  and  girlhood's  beauty, 

Childhood's  lisping  tone. 

But  their  hearth  is  brighter  burning 

For  our  toil  to-day  ; 
And  the  welcome  of  returning 

Shall  our  loss  repay, 
When,  like  seamen  from  the  waters, 

From  the  woods  we  come, 
Greeting  sisters,  wives,  and  daughters, 

Angels  of  our  home  ! 

Not  for  us  the  measured  ringing 

From  the  village  spire, 
Not  for  us  the  Sabbath  singing 

Of  the  sweet-voiced  choir  : 
Ours  the  old,  majestic  temple, 

Where  God's  brightness  shines 
Down  the  dome  so  grand  and  ample, 

Propped  by  lofty  pines  ! 

Through  each  branch-enwoven  skylight. 

Speaks  He  in  the  breeze, 
As  of  old  beneath  the  twilight 

Of  lost  Eden's  trees  ! 
For  his  ear,  the  inward  feeling 

Needs  no  outward  tongue  ; 
He  can  see  the  spirit  kneeling 

While  the  axe  is  swung. 

Heeding  truth  alone,  and  turning 

From  the  false  and  dim, 
Lamp  of  toil  or  altar  burning 

Are  alike  to  Him. 

Strike,    then,     comrades  !  —  Trade    ig 
waiting 

On  our  rugged  toil  ; 
Far  ships  waiting  for  the  freighting 

Of  our  woodland  spoil  i 


11  Down  the  wild  March  flood  shall  bear  them."     Page  118 


THE   ANGELS    OF    BUENA   VISTA. 


119 


Ships,  whose  traffic  links  these  highlands, 

Bleak  and  cold,  of  ours, 
With  the  citron-planted  islands 

Of  a  clime  of  flowers  ; 
To  our  frosts  the  tribute  bringing 

Of  eternal  heats  ; 
In  our  lap  of  winter  flinging 

Tropic  fruits  and  sweets. 

Cheerly,  on  the  axe  of  labor, 

Let  the  sunbeams  dance, 
Better  than  the  flash  of  sabre 

Or  the  gleam  of  lance  ! 
Strike  !  — With  every  blow  is  given 

Freer  sun  and  sky, 
And  the  long-hid  earth  to  heaven 

Looks,  with  wondering  eye  ! 

Loud  behind  us  grow  the  murmurs 

Of  the  age  to  come  ; 
Clang  of  smiths,  and  tread  of  farmers, 

Bearing  harvest  home  ! 
Here  her  virgin  lap  with  treasures 

Shall  the  green  earth  fill  ; 
Waving  wheat  and  golden  maize-ears 

Crown  each  beechen  hill. 


Keep  who  will  the  city's  alleys, 

Take  the  smooth-shorn  plain,  — 
Give  to  us  the  cedar  valleys, 

Eocks  and  hills  of  Maine  ! 
In  our  North-land,  wild  and  woody, 

Let  us  still  have  part : 
Rugged  nurse  and  mother  sturdy, 

Hold  us  to  thy  heart  ! 

0,  our  free  hearts  beat  the  warmer 

For  thy  breath  of  snow  ; 
And  our  tread  is  all  the  firmer 

For  thy  rocks  below. 
Freedom,  hand  in  hand  with  labor, 

A\7alketh  strong  and  brave  ; 
On  the  forehead  of  his  neighbor 

No  man  writeth  Slave  ! 

Lo,  the  day  breaks  !  old  Katahdin'a 

Pine-trees  show  its  fires, 
While  from  these  dim  forest  gardens 

Eise  their  blackened  spires. 
Up,  my  comrades  !  up  and  doing  ! 

Manhood's  rugged  play 
Still  renewing,  bravely  hewing 

Through  the  world  our  way  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA. 

SPEAK  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking 

northward  far  away, 
O'er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o'er  the 

Mexican  array, 
Who  is  losing  ?  who  is  winning  ?  are  they 

far  or  come  they  near  ? 
Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither 

rolls  the  storm  we  hear. 

"Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the 

storm  of  battle  rolls  ; 
Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying  ;  God 

have  mercy  on  their  souls  !  " 
Who    is   losing  ?    who   is    winning  ?  — 

"  Over  hill  and  over  plain, 
\   see   but   smoke   of    cannon  clouding 

through  the  mountain  rain." 

Holy  Mother  !  keep  our  brothers  !  Look, 
Ximena,  look  once  more. 

'•*  Still  I  see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling 
darkly  as  before, 


Bearing  on,  in  strange  confusion,  friend 
and  foeman,  foot  and  horse, 

Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent 
sweeping  down  its  mountain 
course." 


Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena  f    "Ah  ! 

the  smoke  has  rolled  away  ; 
And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming 

down  the  ranks  of  gray. 
Hark  !  that  sudden  blast  of  bugles  !  there 

the  troop  of  Minon  wheels  ; 
There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with 

the  cannon  at  their  heels. 


"  Jesu,  pity  !  how  it  thickens  !  now  re 
treat  and  now  advance  ! 

Eight  against  the  blazing  cannon  shivers 
Puebla's  charging  lance  ! 

Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders  ; 
horse  and  foot  together  fall ; 

Like  a  ploughshare  in  the  fallow,  through 
them  ploughs  the  Northern  ball." 


120 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Nearer  came  the  storm  and  nearer,  roll 
ing  fast  and  frightful  on  ! 

Speak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who 
has  lost,  and  who  has  won  ? 

"  Alas  !  alas  !  I  know  not ;  friend  and  foe 
together  fall, 

O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living  :  pray,  my 
sisters,  for  them  all ! 

"  Lo  !  the  wind  the  smoke  is  lifting  : 

Blessed  Mother,  save  my  brain  ! 
I  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly 

out  from  heaps  of  slain. 
Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding ; 

now  they  fall,  and  strive  to  rise  ; 
Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest 

they  die  before  our  eyes  ! 

*'  0  my  heart's  love  !     0  my  dear  one  ! 

lay  thy  poor  head  on  my  knee  : 
Post  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee  ? 

Canst  thou  hear  me  ?  canst  thou 

see? 
0  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle  !    0  my 

Bernal,  look  once  more 
On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee  !  Mercy  ! 

mercy  !  all  is  o'er  f " 


Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximena  ;  lay  thy 

dear  one  down  to  rest ; 
Let  his  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the 

cross  upon  his  breast  ; 
Let  his  dirge  be  sung  hereafter,  and  his 

funeral  masses  said  : 
To-day,    thou   poor   bereaved   one,    the 

living  ask  thy  aid. 


Close  beside  her,    faintly  moaning,  fair 

and  young,  a  soldier  lay, 
Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances, 

bleeding  slow  his  life  away  ; 
But,    as   tenderly   before  him  the   lorn 

Ximena  knelt, 
She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on 

his  pistol-belt. 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she 

turned  away  her  head  ; 
With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  looked  she 

back  upon  her  dead  ; 
But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning, 

and  his  struggling  breath  of  pain, 
And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his 

parching  lips  again. 


"Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed 

her  hand  and  faintly  smiled  : 
^^ras  that  pitying  face  his  mother's  ?  did 

she  watch  beside  her  child  ? 
All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her 

woman's  heart  supplied  ; 
With    her     kiss     upon     his    forehead, 

"  Mother  !  "    murmured  he,   and 

died  ! 

"A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy, 

who  led  thee  forth, 
From   some    gentle,    sad-eyed    mother, 

weeping,  lonely,  in  the  North  !  " 
Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as 

she  laid  him  with  her  dead, 
And  turned  to  soothe  the  living,  and 

bind  the  wounds  which  bled. 


Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena  !  "  Like 

a  cloud  before  the  wind 
Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains, 

leaving  blood  and  death  behind  ; 
Ah  !  they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy  ;  in 

the  dust  the  wounded  strive  ; 
Hide  your  faces,  holy  angels  !    0  thou 

Christ  of  God,  forgive  !  " 

Sink,  0  Night,  among  thy  mountains  . 

let  the  cool,  gray  shadows  fall  ; 
Dying  brothers,   lighting  demons,  drop 

thy  curtain  over  all ! 
Through  the  thickening  winter  twilight, 

wide  apart  the  battle  rolled, 
In  its  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the 

cannon's  lips  grew  cold. 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their 

holy  task  pursued, 
Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sorrow, 

worn  and  faint  and  lacking  food. 
Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers,  with 

a  tender  care  they  hung, 
And  the  dying  foeman  blessed  them  in 

a  strange  and  Northern  tongue. 

Not  wholly  lost,  0  Father  !  is  this  evil 

world  of  ours  ; 
Upward,  through  its  blood   and  ashes, 

spring  afresh  the  Eden  flowers  ; 
From  its  smoking  hell  of  battle,  Love 

and  Pity  send  their  prayer, 
And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover  ( 

dimly  in  our  air  1 


BARCLAY   OF   URY. 


121 


FORGIVENESS. 

MY  heart  was  heavy,  for  its  trust  had  been 
Abused,    its  kindness  answered  with 

foul  wrong  ; 

So,   turning  gloomily  from   my  fellow- 
men, 
One  summer  Sabbath  day  I  strolled 

among 

The  green  mounds  of  the  village  burial- 
place  ; 
f  Where,  pondering  how  all  human  love 

and  hate 
Find  one  sad  level  ;  and  how,  soon  or 

late, 
"Wronged  and    wrongdoer,     each     with 

meekened  face, 

And  cold  hands  folded  over  a  still  heart, 
Pass  the  green  threshold  of  our  common 

grave,   / 
Whither   all   footsteps  tend,    whence 

none  depart, 

Awed  for  myself,  and  pitying  my  race, 
Our  common  sorrow,  like  a  mighty  wave, 
Swept  all  my  pride  away,  and  trembling 
I  forgave  ! 


> 


BARCLAY   OF   URY.42 


UP  the  streets  of  Aberdeen, 
By  the  kirk  and  college  green, 

Rode  the  Laird  of  Ury  ; 
Close  behind  him,  close  beside, 
Foul  of  mouth  and  evil-eyed, 

Pressed  the  mob  in  fury. 

Flouted  him  the  drunken  churl, 
Jeered  at  him  the  serving-girl, 

Prompt  to  please  her  master  ; 
And  the  begging  carlin,  late 
Fed  and  clothed  at  Ury's  gate, 

Cursed  him  as  he  passed  her. 

Yet,  with  calm  and  stately  mien, 
Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen 

Came  he  slowly  riding  : 
And,  to  all  he  saw  and  heard, 
Answering  not  with  bitter  word, 

Turning  not  for  chiding. 

Came  a  troop  with  broadswords  swinging, 
Bits  and  bridles  sharply  ringing, 
Loose  and  free  and  froward  ; 
Quoth  the  foremost,  "  Ride  him  down  ! 
Push  him  !  prick  him  !  through  the  town 
i       Drive  the  Quaker  coward  !  " 


But  from  out  the  thickening  crowd 
Cried  a  sudden  voice  and  loud  : 

"  Barclay  !  Ho  !  a  Barclay  !  " 
And  the  old  man  at  his  side 
Saw  a  comrade,  battle  tried, 

Scarred  and  sunburned  darkly  ; 

Who  with  ready  weapon  bare, 
Fronting  to  the  troopers  there, 

Cried  aloud  :   "  God  save  us, 
Call  ye  coward  him  who  stood 
Ankle  deep  in  Lutzen's  blood, 

With  the  brave  Gustavus  ? " 

"  Nay,  I  do  not  need  thy  sword, 
Comrade  mine,"  said  Ury's  lord; 

"  Put  it  up,  I  pray  thee  : 
Passive  to  his  holy  will, 
Trust  I  in  my  Master  still, 

Even  though  he  slay  me. 

"  Pledges  of  thy  love  and  faith, 
Proved  on  many  a  field  of  death, 

Not  by  me  are  needed." 
Marvelled  much  that  henchman  bold, 
That  his  laird,  so  stout  of  old, 

Now  so  meekly  pleaded. 

"  Woe  's  the  day  !  "  he  sadly  said, 
With  a  slowly  shaking  head, 

And  a  look  of  pity  ; 
Ury's  honest  lord  reviled, 
Mock  of  knave  and  sport  of  child, 

In  his  own  good  city  ! 

"Speak  the  word,  and,  master  mine, 
As  we  charged  on  Tilly's  line, 

And  his  Walloon  lancers, 
Smiting  through  their  midst  we  '11  teach 
Civil  look  and  decent  speech 

To  these  boyish  prancers  ! " 

Marvel  not,  mine  ancient  Mend, 
Like  beginning,  like  the  end  "  : 

Quoth  the  Laird  of  Ury, 
Is  the  sinful  servant  more 
Than  his  gracious  Lord  who  bore 
Bonds  and  stripes  in  Jewry  ? 

>ive  me  joy  that  in  his  name 
I  can  bear,  with  patient  frame, 

All  these  vain  ones  offer  ; 
While  for  them  He  suffereth  long, 
Shall  I  answer  wrong  witli  wrong, 

Scoffing  with  the  scoffer  ? 


122 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


"  Happier  1,  \vith  loss  of  all, 
Hunted,  outlawed,  held  in  thrall, 

With  few  friends  to  greet  me, 
Than  when  reeve  and  squire  were  seen, 
Hiding  out  from  Aberdeen, 

With  bared  heads  to  meet  me. 

"When  each  goodwife,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Blessed  me  as  1  passed  her  door  ; 

And  the  snooded  daughter, 
Through  her  casement  glancing  down, 
Smiled  on  him  who  bore  renown 

From  red  fields  of  slaughter. 

"  Hard  to  feel  the  stranger's  scoff, 
Hard  the  old  friend's  falling  off, 

Hard  to  learn  forgiving  : 
But  the  Lord  his  own  rewards, 
And  his  love  with  theirs  accords, 

Warm  and  fresh  and  living. 

"  Through  this  dark  and  stormy  night 
Faith  beholds  a  feeble  light 

Up  the  blackness  streaking  ; 
Knowing  God's  own  time  is  best, 
In  a  patient  hope  1  rest 

For  the  full  day-breaking  !  " 

So  the  Laird  of  Ury  said, 
Turning  slow  his  horse's  head 

Towards  the  Tolbooth  prison, 
Where,  through  iron  grates,  he  heard 
Poor  disciples  of  the  Word 

Preach  of  Christ  arisen  ! 

Not  in  vain,  Confessor  old, 
Unto  us  the  tale  is  told 

Of  thy  day  of  trial  ; 
Every  age  on  him,  Avho  strays 
From  its  broad  and  beaten  ways, 

Pours  its  sevenfold  vial. 

Happy  he  whose  inward  ear 
Angel  comfortings  can  hear, 

O'er  the  rabble's  laughter  ; 
And  while  Hatred's  fagots  burn, 
Glimpses  through  the  smoke  discern 

Of  the  good  hereafter. 

Knowing  this,  that  never  yet 
Share  of  Truth  was  vainly  set 

In  the  world's  wide  fallow  ; 
After  hands  shall  sow  the  seed, 
After  hands  from  hill  and  mead 

Reap  the  harvests  yellow. 

Thus,  with  somewhat  of  the  Seer, 
Must  the  moral  pioneer 


From  the  Future  borrow  ; 
Clothe  the  waste  with  dreams  of  grain, 
And,  on  midnight's  sky  of  rain, 

Paint  the  golden  morrow  ! 


WHAT   THE  VOICE  SAID. 

MADDENED  by  Earth's  wrong  and  evil, 
"  Lord  !  "  I  cried  in  sudden  ire, 

"  From  thy    right  hand,   clothed  with 

thunder, 
Shake  the  bolted  fire  ! 

' '  Love  is  lost,  and  Faith  is  dying  ; 

With  the  brute  the  man  is  sold  ; 
And  the  dropping  blood  of  labor 

Hardens  into  gold. 

"  Here  the  dying  wail  of  Famine, 
There  the  battle's  groan  of  pain  ; 

And,  in  silence,  smooth-faced  Mammon 
Reaping  men  like  grain. 

"  'Where  is  God,  that  we  should  fear 
Him?' 

Thus  the  earth-born  Titans  say  ; 
'  God  !  if  thou  art  living,  hear  us  ! ' 

Thus  the  weak  ones  pray." 

"Thou,   the   patient    Heaven    upbraid 
ing/' 

Spake  a  solemn  Voice  within  ; 
"  Weary  of  our  Lord's  forbearance, 

Art  thou  free  from  sin  ? 

"  Fearless  brow  to  Him  uplifting, 
Canst  thou  for  his  thunders  call, 

Knowing  that  to  guilt's  attraction 
Evermore  they  fall  ? 

"  Know'st  thou  not  all  germs  of  evil 
In  thy  heart  await  their  time  ? 

Not  thyself,  but  God's  restraining, 
Stays  their  growth  of  crime. 

"  Couldst  thou  boast,  0  child  of  weak 
ness  ! 

O'er  the  sons  of  wrong  and  strife, 
Were  their  strong  temptations  planted 

In  thy  path  of  life  ? 

"  Thou  hast  seen  two  streamlets  gush 
ing 

From  one  fountain,  clear  and  free, 
But  by  widely  varying  channels 

Searching  for  the  sea. 


WORSHIP. 


123 


"  Glideth  one  through  greenest  valleys, 
Kissing  them  with  lips  still  sweet ; 

One,  mad  roaring  down  the  mountains, 
Stagnates  at  their  feet. 

"  Is  it  choice  whereby  the  Parsee 
Kneels  before  his  mother's  fire  ? 

In  his  black  tent  did  the  Tartar 
Choose  his  wandering  sire  ? 

"  He  alone,  whose  hand  is  bounding 
Human  power  and  human  will, 

Looking  through  each  soul's  surrounding, 
Knows  its  good  or  ill. 

"  For  thyself,  while  wrong  and  sorrow 
Make  to  thee  their  strong  appeal, 

Coward  wert  thou  not  to  utter 
What  the  heart  must  feel. 

"  Earnest  words  must  needs  be  spoken 
When  the  warm  heart  bleeds  or  burns 

With  its  scorn  of  wrong,  or  pity 
For  the  wronged,  by  turns. 

"  But,  by  all  thy  nature's  weakness, 
Hidden  faults  and  follies  known, 

Be  thou,  in  rebuking  evil, 
Conscious  of  thine  own. 

"  Not  the  less  shall  stern-eyed  Duty 

To  thy  lips  her  trumpet  set, 
But  with  harsher  blasts  shall  mingle 

Wailings  of  regret." 

Oase  not,  Voice  of  holy  speaking, 
Teacher  sent  of  God,  be  near, 

Whispering  through  the  day's  cool  silence, 
Let  my  spirit  hear  ! 

F>o,  when  thoughts  of  evil-doers 
Waken  scorn,  or  hatred  move, 

Shall  a  mournful  fellow-feeling 
Tamper  all  with  love. 


TO  DELAWARE. 

[Written  during  the  discussion  in  the  Legisla 
ture  of  that  State,  in  the  winter  of  1846-47,  of  a 
bill  for  the  abolition  of  slavery.] 

THRICE  welcome  to  thy  sisters  of  the  East, 
To  the  strong  tillers  of  a  rugged  home, 
with  spray- wet  locks  to  Northern  winds 
released, 

hardy  feet  o'erswept  by  ocean's 
foam; 


And  to  the  young  nymphs  of  the  golden 

West, 
Whose  harvest  mantles,  fringed  with 

prairie  bloom, 
Trail  in  the  sunset,  —  0  redeemed  and 

blest, 
To  the  warm  welcome  of  thy  sisters 

come  ! 
Broad  Pennsylvania,  down  her  sail-white 

bay 
Shall  give  thee  joy,  and  Jersey  from ' 

her  plains, 
And  the  great  lakes,  where  echo,  free 

alway, 
Moaned    never    shoreward  with  the 

clank  of  chains, 
Shall  weave  new  sun-bows  in  their  toss 

ing  spray, 

And  all  their  weaves  keep  grateful  holiday. 
And,  smiling  on  thee  through  her  moun 
tain  rains, 
Vermont   shall  bless  thee ;    and  the 

Granite  peaks, 
And  vast  Katahdin  o'er  his  woods,  shall 

wear 
Their  snow-crowns  brighter  in  the  cold 

keen  air  ; 
And  Massachusetts,  with  her  rugged 

cheeks 
O'errun  with  grateful  tears,  shall  turn 

to  thee, 

When,  at  thy  bidding,  the  electric  wire 
Shall  tremble  northward  with  its  words 

of  lire  ; 

Glory  and  praise  to  God  !  another  State 
is  free  ! 


WORSHIP. 

"  Pure  religion,  and  nndefiled,  before  God  and 
the  Father  is  this :  To  visit  the  widows  and  the 
fatherless  in  their  affliction,  and  to  keep  himself 
unspotted  from  the  world."  —  James  i.  27. 

THE  Pagan's  myths  through  marble  lipc 

are  spoken, 
And  ghosts  of  old  Beliefs  still  flit  and 

moan 
Round  fane  and  altar  overthrown  and 

broken, 

O'er  tree-grown  barrow  and  gray  ring 
of  stone. 

Blind  Faith  had  martyrs  in  those  old 

high  places, 

The  Syrian  hill  grove  and  the  Druid's 
wood, 


124 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


With  mother's  offering,  to  the  Fiend' 

embraces, 

Bone  of  their  bone,  and  blood  of  theii 
own  blood. 

Red  altars,  kindling  through  that  night 

of  error, 
Smoked  with  warm  blood  beneath  the 

cruel  eye 

Of  lawless  Power  and  sanguinary  Terror, 
I    Throned  on  the  circle  of  a  pitiless  sky ; 

Beneath  whose  baleful  shadow,  overcast 
ing 
All  heaven  above,  and  blighting  earth 

below, 
The  scourge  grew  red,  the  lip  grew  pale 

with  fasting, 
And  man's  oblation  was  his  fear  and 
woe  ! 

Then  through  great  temples  swelled  the 

dismal  moaning 
Of  dirge-like    music   and  sepulchral 

prayer ; 
Pale  wizard  priests,  o'er  occult  symbols 

droning, 

Swung  their  white  censers  in  the  bur 
dened  air  : 

AS  if  the  pomp  of  rituals,  and  the  savor 
Of  gums  and  spices  could  the  Unseen 

One  please  ; 
AS  if  his  ear  could  bend,  with  childish 

favor, 
To  the  poor  flattery  of  the  organ  keys  ! 

Feet  red  from  war-fields  trod  the  church 

aisles  holy, 
With  trembling   reverence  :    and  the 

oppressor  there, 
Kneeling  before  his  priest,  abased  and 

lowly, 

Crushed   human   hearts   beneath   his 
knee  of  prayer. 

Not  such  the  service  the  benignant  Father 
Requireth   at   his   earthly   children's 

hands : 
Kot  the  poor  offering  of  vain  rites,  but 

rather 

The  simple  duty  man  from  man  de 
mands. 

For  Earth  he  asks  it :    the  full  joy  of 

Heaven 

Knoweth  no  change  of  waning  or  in 
crease  ; 


The  great  heart  of  the  Infinite  "beats  even, 
Untroubled  flows  the  river  of  his  peace. 

He  asks  no  taper  lights,  on  high  sur 
rounding 

The  priestly  altar  and  the  saintly  grave, 
No  dolorous  chant  nor  organ  music  sound 
ing, 

Nor  incense  clouding  up  the  twilight 
nave. 


For  he   whom  Jesus  loved   hath,  truly 

spoken  : 
The  holier  worship  which  he  deigns  to 

bless 
Restores  the  lost,  and  binds  the  spirit 

broken, 
And  feeds  the  widow  and  the  fatherless ! 

Types  of  our  human  weakness  and  our 

sorrow  ! 
Who  lives  unhaunted  by  his  loved  ones 

dead? 
Who,  with  vain  longing,  seeketh  not  to 


borrow 

n  stranL 

which  have  fled  ? 


From  stranger  eyes  the  home  lights 

"  ave  fle 


0  brother  man  !  fold  to  thy  heart  thy 

brother  ; 
Where  pity  dwells,  the  peace  of  God 

is  there  ; 

To  worship  rightly  is  to  love  each  other, 
Each  smile  a  hymn,  each  kindly  deed 
a  prayer. 

Follow  with  reverent  steps  the  great  ex- 

ample 
Of  Him  whose  holy  work  was  "  doing 

good  "  ; 
So  shall  the  wide  earth  seem  our  Father's 

temple, 
Each  loving  life  a  psalm  of  gratitude. 

Then  shall  all  shackles  fall ;  the  stormy 

clangor 
Of  wild  war  music  o'er  the  earth  shall 

cease  ; 
Love  shall  tread  out  the  baleful  fire  of 

anger, 
And  in  its  ashes  plant  the  tree  of  peace  / 


THE   DEMON   OF   THE   STUDY. 

THE  Brownie   sits  in  the    Scotchman's 

room, 
And  eats  his  meat  and  drinks  his  ale, 


THE   DEMON    OF   THE   STUDY. 


125 


And  beats  the  maid  with  her  unused 

broom, 

And  the  lazy  lout  with  his  idle  flail, 
But  he  sweeps  the  floor  and  threshes  the 

corn, 
And  hies  him   away  ere   the  break  of 

dawn. 

The  shade  of  Denmark  fled  from  the  sun, 
And  the  Cocklane  ghost  from  the  barn- 
loft  cheer, 

The  fiend  of  Faust  was  a  faithful  one, 
Agrippa's  demon  wrought  in  fear, 

And  the  devil  of  Martin  Luther  sat 

By  the  stout  monk's  side  in  social  chat. 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  on  the  neck  of 

him 

Who  seven  times  crossed  the  deep, 
Twined  closely  each  lean  and  withered 

limb, 

Like  the  nightmare  in  one's  sleep. 
But  he  drank  of  the  wine,  and  Sindbad  cast 
The  evil  weight  from  his  back  at  last. 

But  the  demon  that  cometh  day  by  day 
To  my  quiet  room  and  fireside  nook, 

Where  the  casement  light  falls  dim  and 

gray 
On  faded  painting  and  ancient  book, 

Is  a  sorrier  one  than  any  whose  names 

Are  chronicled  well  by  good  King  James. 

No  bearer  of  burdens  like  Caliban, 
No  runner  of  errands  like  Ariel, 

He  comes  in  the  shape  of  a  fat  old  man, 
Without  rap  of  knuckle  or  pull  of  bell ; 

And  whence  he  comes,  or  whither  he  goes, 

I  know  as  I  do  of  the  wind  which  blows. 

k  stout  old  man  with  a  greasy  hat 
Slouched  heavily  down  to  his  dark, 

red  nose, 

And  two  gray  eyes  enveloped  in  fat, 
Looking   through   glasses   with  iron 

bows. 

Read  ye,  and  heed  ye,  and  ye  who  can, 
Guard  well  your  doors  from  that  old 
man  ! 

He  comes  with  a  careless  ' '  How  d'  ye  do  ? " 
And  seats  himself  in  my  elbow-chair  ; 

And  my  morning  paper  and  pamphlet  new 
Fall  forthwith  under  his  special  care 

And  he  wipes  his  glasses  and  clears  his 
throat, 

And,  button  by  button,  unfolds  his  coat. 


And  then  he  reads  from  paper  and  book, 

In  a  low  and  husky  asthmatic  tone, 
With  the  stolid  sameness  of  posture  and 

look 

Of  one  who  reads  to  himself  alone  ; 
And  hour  after  hour  on  my  senses  come 
That   husky  wheeze  and  that  dolorous 
hum. 

The  price  of  stocks,  the  auction  sales, 
The  poet's  song  and  the  lover's  glee, 

The  horrible  murders,  the  seaboard  gales, 
The  marriage  list,  and  the  jeu  d' esprit, 

All  reach  my  ear  in  the  self-same  tone,  — 

I  shudder  at  each,  but  the  fiend  reads  on  ! 

0,  sweet  as  the  lapse  of  water  at  noon 

O'er  the  mossy  roots  of  some  forest  tree, 

The  sigh  of  the  wind  in  the  woods  of  June, 

Or  sound  of  flutes  o'er  a  moonlight  sea, 

Or  the  low  soft  music,  perchance,  which 

seems 

To  float  through  the  slumbering  singer's 
dreams, 

So  sweet,  so  dear  is  the  silvery  tone, 
Of  her  in  whose  features  I  sometimes 

look, 
As  I  sit  at  eve  by  her  side  alone, 

And  we  read  by  turns  from  the  self 
same  book,  — 

Some  tale  perhaps  of  the  olden  time, 
Some  lover's  romance  or  quaint  old  rhyme. 

Then  when  the  story  is  one  of  woe,  — 
Some  prisoner's  plaint  through  his  dun 
geon-bar, 

Her  blue  eye  glistens  with  tears,  and  low 
Her  voice  sinks  down  like  a  moan  afar ; 

And  I  seem  to  hear  that  prisoner's  wail, 

And  his  face  looks  on  me  worn  and  pale. 

And  when  she  reads  some  merrier  song, 
Her  voice  is  glad  as  an  April  bird's, 

And  when  the  tale  is  of  war  and  wrong, 
A  trumpet's  summons  is  in  her  words, 

And  the  rush  of  the  hosts  I  seem  to  hear, 

And  see  the  tossing  of  plume  and  spear !  — 

0,  pity  me  then,  when,  day  by  day, 

The  stout  fiend  darkens  my  parlor  door ; 
And  reads  me  perchance  the  self-same  lay 
Which  melted  in  music,  the  night  be 
fore, 

From  lips  as  the  lips  of  Hylas  sweet, 
And  moved  like  twin  roses  which  zephyrs 
meet ! 


126 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


I  cross  my  floor  with  a  nervous  tread, 
I  whistle  and  laugh  and  sing  and  shout, 

I  flourish  my  cane  above  his  head, 
And  stir  up  the  fire  to  roast  him  out ; 

I  topple  the  chairs,  and  drum  on  the  pane, 

And  press  my  hands  on  my  ears,  in  vain  ! 

I  've  studied  Glanville  and  James  the  wise, 
And  wizard  black-letter  tomes  which 

treat 

Of  demons  of  every  name  and  size, 
AVhich  a  Christian  man  is  presumed  to 

meet, 

But  never  a  hint  and  never  a  line 
Can  I  find  of  a  reading  fiend  like  mine. 

I  've  crossed  the  Psalter  with  Brady  and 

Tate, 

And  laid  the  Primer  above  them  all, 
I  've  nailed  a  horseshoe  over  the  grate, 

And  hung  a  wig  to  my  parlor  wall 
Once   worn   by  a  learned   Judge,    they 

say, 
At  Salem  court  in  the  witchcraft  day  ! 

"  Conjuro  te,  sceleratissime, 
Abire  ad  tuuin  locum  /  "  —  still 

Like  a  visible  nightmare  he  sits  by  me,  — 
The  exorcism  has  lost  its  skill  ; 

And  I  hear  again  in  my  haunted  room 

The  husky  wheeze  and  the  dolorous  hum  ! 

Ah  !  —  commend  me  to  Mary  Magdalen 
With  her  sevenfold  plagues,  —  to  the 

wandering  Jew, 
To  the  terrors  which  haunted   Orestes 

when 

The  furies  his  midnight  curtains  drew, 
But  charm  him  off,  ye  who  charm  him 

can, 
That  readiiig  demon,  that  fat  old  man  ! 


THE   PUMPKIN. 

0,  GREENLY  and  fair  in  the  lands  of  the 
sun, 

The  vines  of  the  gourd  and  the  rich 
melon  run, 

And  the  rock  and  the  tree  and  the  cot 
tage  enfold, 

"With  broad  leaves  all  greenness  and 
blossoms  all  gold, 

Like  that  which  o'er  Nineveh's  prophet 
once  grew, 

While  he  waited  to  know  that  his  warn 
ing  was  true, 


And  longed  for   the   storm-cloud,    and 

listened  in  vain 
For  the  rush  of  the  whirlwind  and  red 

fire -rain. 


On   the   banks   of  the   Xenil  the   dark 

Spanish  maiden 
Comes  up  with  the  fruit  of  the  tangled 

vine  laden  ; 
And  the  Creole  of  Cuba  laughs  out  to 

behold 
Through  orange-leaves  shining  the  broad 

spheres  of  gold  ; 
Yet  with  dearer  delight  from  his  home 

in  the  North, 
On  the  fields  of  his  harvest  the  Yankee 

looks  forth, 

Where  crook-necks  are  coiling  and  yel 
low  fruit  shines, 
And  the  sun  of  September  melts  down 

on  his  vines. 


Ah  !  on  Thanksgiving  day,  when  from 
East  and  from  West, 

From  North  and  from  South  come  the 
pilgrim  and  guest, 

When  the  gray-haired  New-Englander 
sees  round  his  board 

The  old  broken  links  of  affection  re 
stored, 

When  the  care-wearied  man  seeks  his 
mother  once  more, 

And  the  worn  matron  smiles  where  the 
girl  smiled  before, 

What  moistens  the  lip  and  what  bright 
ens  the  eye  ? 

What  calls  back  the  past,  like  the  rich 
Pumpkin  pie  ? 


0,  —  fruit  loved  of  boyhood  !  - —  the  old 

days  recalling, 
When   wood-grapes  were  purpling  ard 

brown  nuts  were  falling  ! 
When  wild,  ugly  faces  we  carved  in  its 

skin, 
Glaring  out   through   the  dark  with  a 

candle  within  ! 
When  we  laughed  round  the  corn-heap, 

with  hearts  all  in  tune, 
Our  chair  a  broad  pumpkin,  —  our  lan 
tern  the  moon, 
Telling  tales  of  the  fairy  who  travelled 

like  steam, 
In  a  pumpkin-shell  coach,  with  two  rats 

for  her  team  ! 


HAMPTON   BEACH. 


127 


Then  thanks  for  thy  present !  —  none 
sweeter  or  better 

E'er  smoked  from  an  oven  or  circled  a 
platter  ! 

Fairer  hands  never  wrought  at  a  pastry 
more  fine, 

Brighter  eyes  never  watched  o'er  its 
baking,  than  thine  ! 

And  the  prayer,  which  my  mouth  is  too 
full  to  express, 

Swells  my  heart  that  thy  shadow  may 
never  be  less, 

That  the  days  of  thy  lot  may  be  length 
ened  below, 

And  the  fame  of  thy  worth  like  a  pump 
kin-vine  grow, 

And  thy  life  be  as  sweet,  and  its  last 
sunset  sky 

Golden-tinted  and  fair  as  thy  own 
Pumpkin  pie  } 


EXTRACT  FROM   "A  NEW    ENG 
LAND   LEGEND." 

How  has  New  England's  romance  fled, 

Even  as  a  vision  of  the  morning  ! 
Its  rites  foredone,  —its  guardians  dead,— 
Its  priestesses,  bereft  of  dread, 

Waking  the  veriest  urchin's  scorning  ! 
Gone  like  the  Indian  wizard's  yell 

And  fire-dance  round  the  magic  rock, 
Forgotten  like  the  Druid's  spell 

At  moonrise  by  his  holy  oak  ! 
No  more  along  the  shadowy  glen, 
Glide  the  dim  ghosts  of  murdered  men  ; 
No  more  the  unquiet  churchyard  dead 
Glimpse  upward  from  their  turfy  bed, 

Startling  the  traveller,  late  and  lone  ; 
As,  on  some  night  of  starless  weather, 
They  silently  commune  together, 

Each  sitting  on  his  own  head- stone  ! 
The  roofless  house,  decayed,  deserted, 
Its  living  tenants  all  departed, 
No  longer  rings  with  midnight  revel 
Of  witch,  or  ghost,  or  goblin  evil  ; 
No  pale  blue  flame  sends  out  its  flashes 
Through    creviced    roof   and   shattered 

sashes  !  — 

The  witch-grass  round  the  hazel  spring 
May  sharply  to  the  night-an  sing, 
But  there  no  more  shall  withered  hags 
Refresh  at  ease  their  broomstick  nags, 
Or  taste  those  hazel-shadowed  waters 
As  beverage  meet  for  Satan's  daughters  ; 
No  more  their  mimic  tones  be  heard,  — 
The  mew  of  cat,  —  the  chirp  of  bird,  — 


Shrill  blending  with  the  hoarser  laughtei 
Of  the  fell  demon  following  after  ! 
The  cautious  goodman  nails  no  more 
A  horseshoe  on  his  outer  door, 
Lest  some  unseemly  hag  should  fit 
To  his  own  mouth  her  bridle -bit,  — 
The  good  wife's  churn  no  more  refuses 
Its  wonted  culinary  uses 
Until,  with  heated  needle  burned, 
The  witch  has  to  her  place  returned  ! 
Our  witches  are  no  longer  old 
And  wrinkled  beldames,  Satan-sold, 
But  young  and  gay  and  laughing  crea 

tures, 

With  the  heart's  sunshine  on  their  fea 
tures,  — 

Their  sorcery  —  the  light  which  dancea 
Where  the  raised  lid  unveils  its  glances; 
Or  that  low-breathed  and  gentle  tone, 

The  music  of  Love's  twilight  hours, 
Soft,  dream-like,  as  a  fairy's  moan 

Above  her  nightly  closing  flowers, 
Sweeter  than  that  which  sighed  of  yore 
Along  the  charmed  Ausonian  shore  I 
Even  she,  our  own  weird  heroine, 
Sole  Pythoness  of  ancient  Lynn, 

Sleeps  calmly  where  thelivinglaid  her 
And  the  wide  realm  of  sorcery, 
Left  by  its  latest  mistress  free, 

Hath  found  no  gray  and  skilled  in 
vader  : 
So  perished  Albion's  "glammarye," 

With  him  in  Melrose  Abbey  sleeping, 
His  charmed  torch  beside  his  knee, 
That  even  the  dead  himself  might  see 

The  magic  scroll  within  his  keeping. 
And  now  our  modern  Yankee  sees 
Nor  omens,  spells,  nor  mysteries  ; 
And  naught  above,  below,  around, 
Of  life  or  death,  of  sight  or  sound, 

Whate'er  its  nature,  form,  or  look, 
Excites  his  terror  or  surprise,  — 
All  seeming  to  his  knowing  eyes 
Familiar  as  his  "  catechize," 

Or  "  Webster's  Spelling- Book." 

HAMPTON  BEACH. 

THE  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright, 

Where,  miles  away, 
Lies  stretching  to  my  dazzled  sight 
A  luminous  belt,  a  misty  light, 
Beyond  the  dark  pine  bluffs  and  waste* 
of  sandy  gray. 

The  tremulous  shadow  of  the  Sea  ! 
Agahist  its  ground 


128 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Of  silvery  light,  rock,  hill,  and  tree, 
Still  as  a  picture,  clear  and  free, 
With  varying  outline  mark  the  coast  for 
miles  around. 

On  —  on  —  we  tread  with  loose-flung 

rein 

Our  seaward  way, 

Through   dark -green  fields  and  blos 
soming  grain. 
Where  the  wild  brier-rose  skirts  the 

lane, 

And  bends  above  our  heads  the  flowering 
locust  spray. 

Ha  !  like  a  kind  hand  on  my  brow 

Comes  this  fresh  breeze, 
Doling  its  dull  and  feverish  glow, 
While  through  my  being  seems  to  flow 
^le  breath  of  a  new  life,  —  the  healing 
of  the  seas  ! 

Now  rest  we,  where  this  grassy  mound 

His  feet  hath  set 

In  the  great  waters,  which  have  bound 
His  granite  ankles  greenly  round 
With  long  and  tangled  moss,  and  weeds 
with  cool  spray  wet. 

Good  by  to  pain  and  care  !  I  take 

Mine  ease  to-day  : 

Here  where  these  sunny  waters  break, 
And  ripples  this  keen  breeze,  I  shake 
AH  burdens  from  the  heart,    all.  weary 
thoughts  away. 

I  draw  a  freer  breath  —  I  seem 

Like  all  I  see  — 
Waves  in  the  sun  —  the  white-winged 

gleam 

Of  sea-birds  in  the  slanting  beam  — 
And  far-off  sails  which  flit  before  the 
south-wind  free. 

So  when  Time's  veil  shall  fall  asunder, 

The  soul  may  know 
No  fearful  change,  nor  sudden  wonder, 
Nor  sink  the  weight  of  mystery  under, 
But  with  the  upward  rise,  and  with  the 
vastness  grow. 

And  all  we  shrink  from  now  may  seem 

No  new  revealing ; 
Familiar  as  our  childhood's  stream, 
Or  pleasant  memory  of  a  dream 
The  loved  and  cherished  Past  upon  the 
new  life  stealing. 


Serene  and  mild  the  untried  light 

May  have  its  dawning  ; 
And,  as  in  summer's  northern  night 
The  evening  and  the  dawn  unite, 
The  sunset  hues  of  Time  blend  with  the 
soul's  new  morning. 

I  sit  alone  ;  in  foam  and  spray 

Wave  after  wave 
Breaks  on  the  rocks  which,  stern  imd 

gray, 

Shoultkr  the  broken  tide  away, 
Or  murmurs  hoarse  and  strong  through 
mossy  cleft  and  cave. 

What  heed  I  of  the  dusty  land 

And  noisy  town  ? 
I  see  the  mighty  deep  expand 
From  its  white  line  of  glimmering  sand 
To  where  the  blue  of  heaven  on  bluer 
waves  shuts  down ! 

In  listless  quietude  of  mind, 

I  yield  to  all 
The  change  of  cloud   and  wave  and 

wind 

And  passive  on  the  flood  reclined, 
I  wander  with  the  waves,  and  with  them 
rise  and  fall. 

But  look,  thou  dreamer  ! — wave  and 

shore 

In  shadow  lie ; 
The  night-wind  warns  me  back  once 

more 

To  where,  my  native  hill-tops  o'er, 
Bends  like  an  arch  of  fire  the  glowing 
sunset  sky. 

So  then,  beach,  bluff,  and  wave,  fare 
well ! 

I  bear  with  me 

No  token  stone  nor  glittering  shell, 
But  long  and  oft  shall  Memory  tell 
Of  this  brief  thoughtful  hour  of  musing 
by  the  Sea. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN   ON   HEARING    OF    THE   DEATH 
OF   SILAS   WRIGHT   OF    NEW   YORK. 

As  they  who,  tossing  midst  the  storm  ad 

night, 

While   turning  shoreward,    where    3 
beacon  shone, 


LINES. 


129 


Meet    the   walled   blackness    of   the 

heaven  alone, 

So,  on  the  turbulent  waves  of  party  tossed, 
In  gloom  and  tempest,  men  have  seen 

thy  light 
Quenched  in    the  darkness.     At  thy 

hour  of  noon, 
While  life  was  pleasant  to  thy  undimmed 

sight, 

And,  day  by  day,  within  thy  spirit  grew 
A  holier  hope  than  young  Ambition  knew, 
As  through  thy  rural  <]uiet,  not  in  vain, 
Pierced  the  sharp  thrill  of  Freedom's  cry 

of  pain, 
Man  of  the  millions,  thou  art  lost  too 

soon  ! 
Portents  at  which    the  bravest  stand 

aghast,  — - 
The  birth-throes  of  a   Future,    strange 

and  vast, 
Alarm   the   land  ;  yet   thou,  so   wise 

and  strong, 

Suddenly  summoned  to  the  burial  bed, 
Lapped  in  its  slumbers  deep  and  ever 

long, 

Hear'st  not  the  tumult  surging  overhead. 
Who  now  shall  rally  Freedom's  scatter 
ing  host  ? 

Who  wear  the  mantle  of  the  leader  lost  ? 
Who  stay  the  march  of  slavery  ?  He 

whose  voice 
Hath  called  thee  from  thy  task-field 

shall  not  lack 
Yet  bolder  champions,  to  beat  bravely 

back 
The  wrong  which,  through  his  poor  ones, 

reaches  Him  : 

Yet  firmer  hands  shall  Freedom's  torch 
lights  trim, 

And  wave  them  high  across  the  abys 
mal  black, 

Till  bound,    dumb  millions  there   shall 
see  them  and  rejoice. 

1(M  7720.,  1847. 

LINES, 

ACCOMPANYING    MANUSCRIPTS   PRESENT 
ED   TO    A    FRIEND. 

'T  is  said  that  in  the  Holy  Land 
The  angels  of  the  place  have  blessed 

The  pilgrim's  bed  of  desert  sand, 
Like  Jacob's  stone  of  rest. 

That  down  the  hush  of  Syrian  skies 
Some  sweet-voiced  saint   at   twilight 
sings 


The  song  whose  holy  symphonies 
Are  beat  by  unseen  wings  ; 

Till  starting  from  his  sandy  bed, 
The  wayworn  wanderer  looks  to  sec 

The  halo  of  an  angel's  head 

Shine  through  the  tamarisk-tree. 

So  through  the  shadows  of  my  way 
Thy  smile  hath  fallen  soft  and  clear, 

So  at  the  weary  close  of  day 

Hath  seemed  thy  voice  of  cheer. 

That  pilgrim  pressing  to  his  goal 
May  pause  not  for  the  vision's  sake, 

Yet  all  fair  things  Avithin  his  soul 
The  thought  of  it  shall  wake  : 

The  graceful  palm-tree  by  the  well, 
Seen  on  the  far  horizon's  rim  ; 

The  dark  eyes  of  the  fleet  gazelle, 
Bent  timidly  on  him  ; 

Each  pictured  saint,  whose  golden  hair 
Streams  sunlike  through  the  convent's 
gloom  ; 

Pale  shrines  of  martyrs  young  and  fair, 
And  loving  Mary's  tomb  ; 

And  thus  each  tint  or  shade  which  falls, 
From  sunset  cloud  or  waving  tree, 

Along  my  pilgrim  path,  recalls 
The  pleasant  thought  of  thee. 

Of  one  in  sun  and  shade  the  same, 
In  weal  and  woe  my  steady  friend, 

Whatever  by  that  holy  name 
The  angels  comprehend. 

Not  blind  to  faults  and  follies,  thou 
Hast  never  failed  the  good  to  see, 

Nor  judged  by  one  unseemly  bough 
The  upward-struggling  tree. 

These  light  leaves  at  thy  feet  I  lay, 

Poor  common   thoughts   on  common 
things, 

Which  time  is  shaking,  day  by  day, 
Like  feathers  from  his  wings,  — 

Chance  shootings  from  a  frail  life-tree, 
To  nurturing  care  but  little  known, 

Their  good  was  partly  learned  of  thee, 
Their  folly  is  my  own. 

That  tree  still  clasps  the  kindly  mould, 
Its  leaves  still  drink  the  twilight  dew, 


130 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


And  weaving  its  pale  green  with  gold, 
Still  shines  the  sunlight  through. 

There  still  the  morning  zephyrs  play, 
And  there   at   times  the  spring  bird 
sings, 

And  mossy  trunk  and  fading  spray 
Are  flowered  with  glossy  wings. 

Yet,  even  in  genial  sun  and  rain, 

Root,  branch,  and  leaflet  fail  and  fade  ; 

The  wanderer  on  its  lonely  plain 
Erelong  shall  miss  its  shade. 

O  friend  beloved,  whose  curious  skill 
Keeps   bright   the   last  year's   leaves 

and  flowers, 
With  warm,  glad  summer  thoughts  to 

fill 
The  cold,  dark,  winter  hours  ! 

Pressed  on  thy  heart,  the  leaves  I  bring 
May  well  defy  the  wintry  cold, 

Until,  in  Heaven's  eternal  spring, 
Life's  fairer  ones  unfold. 


V      THE  REWARD.  / 

WHO,  looking  backward  from  his  man 
hood's  prime, 
Sees  not  the  spectre  of  his  misspent  time  ? 

And,  through  the  shade 
Of  funeral  cypress  planted  thick  behind, 
Hears   no   reproachful   whisper  on   the 

wind 
From  his  loved  dead  ? 

Who  bears  no   trace   of  passion's   evil 

force  ? 

Who  shuns   thy  sting,    0   terrible  Re 
morse  ?  — 
Who  does  not  cast 
On  the  thronged  pages  of  his  memory's 

book, 

At  times,  a  sad!  and  half-reluctant  look, 
Regretful  of  the  past  ? 

Alas! — the  evil  which  we  fain  would 

shun 
We  do,  and  leave  the  wished-for  good 

undone : 

Our  strength  to-day 
Is  but  to-morrow's  weakness,  prone  to 

fall; 

Poor,  blind,  unprofitable  servants  all 
Are  we  alway. 


Yet   who,  thus   looking  backward  o'er 

his  years, 
Feels  not  his  eyelids  wet  with  grateful 

tears, 

If  he  hath  been 

Permitted,  weak  and  sinful  as  he  was, 
To   cheer   and   aid,  in   some  ennobling 

cause, 
His  fellow-men  ? 

If  he  hath  hidden  the  outcast,  or  let  in 
A  ray  of  sunshine  to  the  cell  of  sin,  — 

If  he  hath  lent 
Strength  to  the  weak,  and,  in  an  hour  of 

need, 
Over  the  suffering,  mindless  of  his  creed 

Or  home,  hath  bent, 

He  has  not  lived  in  vain,  and  while  he 
gives 

The  praise  to  Him,  in  whom  he  moves 

and  lives, 
With  thankful  heart  ; 

He    gazes    backward,    and    with    hope 
before, 

Knowing  that  from  his  works  he  never 
more 
Can  henceforth  part. 


RAPHAEL. 

I  SHALL  not  soon  forget  that  sight  : 
The  glow  of  autumn's  westering  day, 

A  hazy  warmth,  a  dreamy  light, 
On  Raphael's  picture  lay. 

It  was  a  simple  print  I  saw, 
The  fair  face  of  a  musing  boy  ; 

Yet,  while  I  gazed,  a  sense  of  awe 
Seemed  blending  with  my  joy. 

A  simple  print  :  — the  graceful  flow 
Of  boyhood's  soft  and  wavy  hair, 

And    fresh  young   lip  and   cheek,  and 

brow 
Unmarked  and  clear,  were  there. 

Yet  through  its  sweet  and  calm  repose 
I  saw  the  inward  spirit  shine  ; 

Jt  was  as  if  before  me  rose 
The  white  veil  of  a  shrine. 

As  if,  as  Gothland's  sage  has  told, 
The  hidden  life,  the  man  within, 

Dissevered  from  its  frame  and  mould., 
By  mortal  eye  were  seen. 


LUCY   HOOPER. 


131 


Was  it  the  lifting  of  that  eye, 
The  waving  of  that  pictured  hand  ? 

Loose  as  a  cloud-wreath  on  the  sky, 
I  saw  the  walls  expand. 

The  narrow  room  had  vanished,  —  space, 
Broad,  luminous,  remained  alone, 

Through  which  all  hues  and  shapes  of 

grace 
And  beauty  looked  or  shone. 

Around  the  mighty  master  came 

The  marvels  which  his  pencil  wrought, 

Those  miracles  of  power  whose  fame 
Is  wide  as  human  thought. 

There  drooped   thy   more   than   mortal 
face, 

0  Mother,  beautiful  and  mild  ! 
Enfolding  in  one  dear  embrace 

Thy  Saviour  and  thy  Child  ! 

The  rapt  brow  of  the  Desert  John  ; 

The  awful  glory  of  that  day 
When  all  the  Father's  brightness  shone 

Through  manhood's  veil  of  clay. 

And,   midst    gray  prophet    forms,   and 
wild 

Dark  visions  of  the  days  of  old, 
How  sweetly  woman's  beauty  smiled 

Through  locks  of  brown  and  gold  ! 

There  Fornarina's  fair  young  face 
Once  more  upon  her  lover  shone, 

Whose  model  of  an  angel's  grace 
He  borrowed  from  her  own. 

Slow  passed  that  vision  from  my  view, 
But  not  the  lesson  which  it  taught  ; 

The  soft,  calm  shadows  which  it  threw 
Still  rested  on  my  thought : 

The  truth,  that  painter,  bard,  and  sage, 
Even  in  Earth's  cold   and  changeful 
clime, 

Plant  for  their  deathless  heritage 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  time. 

We  shape  ourselves  the  joy  or  fear 
Of  which  the  coming  life  is  made, 

knd  fill  our  Future's  atmosphere 
With  sunshine  or  with  shade. 

the  tissue  of  the  Life  to  be 
We  weave  with  colors  all  our  own, 


And  in  the  field  of  Destiny 
We  reap  as  we  have  sown. 

Still  shall  the  soul  around  it  call 
The  shadows  which  it  gathered  here, 

And,  painted  on  the  eternal  wall, 
The  Past  shall  reappear. 

Think  ye  the  notes  of  holy  song 
On  Milton's  tuneful  ear  have  died  ? 

Think  ye  that  Raphael's  angel  throng 
Has  vanished  from  his  side  ? 

0  no  !  —  We  live  our  life  agahi  ; 

Or  warmly  touched,  or  coldly  dim, 
The  pictures  of  the  Past  remain,  — 

Man's  works  shall  follow  him  ! 


LUCY  HOOPER.43 

THEY  tell  me,  Lucy,  thou  art  dead,  — 
That  all  of  thee  we  loved  and  cher 

ished 
Has   with  thy  summer  roses  per 

ished  ; 

And  left,  as  its  young  beauty  fled, 
An  ashen  memory  in  its  stead,  — 
The  twilight  of  a  parted  day 

Whose  fading  light  is  cold  and  vain 
The  heart's  faint  echo  of  a  strain 
Of  low,  sweet  music  passed  away. 
That  true  and  loving  heart,  —  that  gift 

Of  a  mind,  earnest,  clear,  profound, 
Bestowing,  with  a  glad  unthrift, 
Its  sunny  light  on  all  around, 
Affinities  which  only  could 
Cleave  to  the  pure,  the  true,  and  good  ; 
And  sympathies  which  found  no  rest, 
Save  with  the  loveliest  and  best. 
Of    them  —  of    thee  —  remains     there 

naught 

But  sorrow  in  the  mourner's  breast  ?  — 
A  shadow  in  the  land  of  thought  ? 
No  !  —  Even   my  weak  and  trembling 

faith 

Can  lift  for  thee  the  veil  which  doubt 
And  human  fear  have  drawn  about 
The  all-awaiting  scene  of  death. 

Even  as  thou  wast  I  see  thee  still ; 
And,  save  the  absence  of  all  ill 
And  pain  and  weariness,  which  here 
Summoned  the  sigh  or  wrung  the  tear, 
The  same  as  when,  two  summers  back, 
Beside  our  childhood's  Merrimack, 
I  saw  thy  dark  eye  wander  o'er 


132 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Stream,  sunny  upland,  rocxy  shore, 
And  heard  thy  low,  soft  voice  alone 
Midst  lapse  of  waters,  and  the  tone 
Of  pine-leaves  by  the  west-wind  blown, 
There  's  not  a  charm  of  soul  or  brow,  — 

Of  all  we  knew  and  loved  in  thee,  — 
But  lives  in  holier  beauty  now, 

Baptized  in  immortality  ! 
Not  mine  the  sad  and  freezing  dream 

Of  souls  that,  with  their  earthly  mould, 

Cast  off  the  loves  and  joys  of  old,  — 
Unbodied,  —  like  a  pale  moonbeam, 

As  pure,  as  passionless,  and  cold  ; 
Nor  mine  the  hope  of  Indra's  son, 

Of  slumbering  in  oblivion's  rest, 
Life's  myriads  blending  into  one,  — 

In  blank  annihilation  blest  ; 
Dust-atoms  of  the  infinite,  — 
Sparks  scattered  from  the  central  light, 
And  winning  back  through  mortal  pain 
Their  old  unconsciousness  again. 
No  !  —  I  have  mi  ENDS  in  Spirit  Land,  — 
Not  shadows  in  a  shadowy  band, 

Not  otJicrs,  but  themselves  are  they. 
And  still  I  think  of  them  the  same 
As  when  the  Master's  summons  came  ; 
Their   change,  —  the    holy  morn-light 

breaking 
Fpon  the  dream-worn  sleeper,  waking, — 

A  change  from  twilight  into  day. 

They  've  laid  thee  midst  the  household 
graves, 

Where  father,  brother,  sister  lie  ; 
Below  thee  sweep  the  dark  blue  waves, 

Above  thee  bends  the  summer  sky. 
Thy  own  loved  church  in  sadness  read 
Her  solemn  ritual  o'er  thy  head, 
knd   blessed    and    hallowed   with    her 

prayer 

The  turf  laid  lightly  o'er  thee  there. 
That  church,  whose  rites  and  liturgy, 
Sublime  and  old,  were  truth  to  thee, 
Undoubted  to  thy  bosom  taken, 
As  symbols  of  a  faith  unshaken. 
Even  I,  of  simpler  views,  could  feel 
The  beauty  of  thy  trust  and  zeal ; 
And,  owning  not  thy  creed,  could  see 
How  deep  a  truth  it  seemed  to  thee, 
And  how  thy  fervent  heart  had  thrown 
0  er  all,  a  coloring  of  its  own, 
r  ad.  kindled  up,  intense  and  warm, 
A  life  in  every  rite  and  form, 
v",s,  when  on  Chebar's  banks  of  old, 
The  Hebrew's  gorgeous  vision  rolled, 
A  spirit  filled  the  vast  machine,  — 
A  life  "  within  the  wheels  "  was  seen. 


Farewell  !     A  little  time,  and  we 

Who  knew  thee  well,  and  loved  thee 

here, 
One  after  one  shall  follow  thee 

As  pilgrims  through  the  gate  of  fear, 
Which  opens  on  eternity. 
Yet  shall  we  cherish  not  the  less 

All  that  is  left  our  hearts  meanwhile  ; 
The  memory  of  thy  loveliness 

Shall  round  our  weary  pathway  smile, 
Like  moonlight  when  the  sun  has  set,  — 
A  sweet  and  tender  radiance  yet. 
Thoughts   of    thy   clear-eyed   sense    of 
duty, 

Thy  generous   scorn    of    all    things 

wrong,  — 

The  truth,    the  strength,   the   graceful 
beauty 

Which  blended  in  thy  song. 
All  lovely  things,  by  thee  beloved, 

Shall  whisper  to  our  hearts  of  thee  ; 
These  green  hills,  where  thy  childhood 
roved,  — 

Yon  river  winding  to  the  sea,  — 
The  sunset  light  of  autumn  eves 

Reflecting  on  the  deep,  still  floods, 
Cloud,     crimson     sky,   and     trembling 
leaves 

Of  rainbow-tinted  woods,  — 
These,  in  our  view,  shall  henceforth  take 
A  tenderer  meaning  for  thy  sake  ; 
And  all  thou  lovedst  of  earth  and  sky, 
Seem  sacred  to  thy  memory. 


CHANNING.44 

NOT  vainly  did  old  poets  tell, 
Nor  vainly  did  old  genius  paint 

God's  great  and  crowning  miracle,  — 
The  hero  and  the  saint  ! 

For  even  in  a  faithless  day 

Can  we  our  sainted  ones  discern  ; 

And  feel,  while  with  them  on  the  way, 
Our  hearts  within  us  burn. 

And  thus  the  common  tongue  and  pen 
Which,  world-wide,  echo  CHANNING'S 
fame, 

As  one  of  Heaven's  anointed  men, 
Have  sanctified  his  name. 

In  vain  shall  Rome  her  portals  bar, 
And  shut  from  him  her  saintly  prize, 

Whom,  in  the  world's  great  caXenokt. 
All  men  shall  canonize. 


TO   THE  MEMORY   OF   CHARLES   B.   STORRS. 


133 


By  Narragansett's  sunny  bay, 

Beneath  his  green  embowering  wood, 

To  me  it  seems  but  yesterday 
Since  at  his  side  I  stood. 

The  slopes  lay  green  with  summer  rains, 
The   western   wind    blew   fresh    and 
free, 

And  glimmered  down  the  orchard  lanes 
The  white  surf  of  the  sea. 

With  us  was  one,  who,  calm  and  true, 
Life's  highest  purpose  understood, 

And,  like  his  blessed  Master,  knew 
The  joy  of  doing  good. 

Unlearned,  unknown  to  lettered  fame, 
Yet  on  the  lips  of  England's  poor 

And  toiling  millions  dwelt  his  name, 
With  blessings  evermore. 

Unknown  to  power  or  place,  yet  where 
The  sun  looks  o'er  the  Carib  sea, 

It  blended  with  the  freeman's  prayer 
And  song  of  jubilee. 

He  told  of  England's  sin  and  wrong,  — 
The  ills  her  suffering  children  know,  — 

The  squalor  of  the  city's  throng,  — 
The  green  field's  want  and  woe. 

O'er  Channing's  face  the  tenderness 
Of  sympathetic  sorrow  stole, 

Like  a  still  shadow,  passionless,  — 
The  sorrow  of  the  soul. 

But  when  the  generous  Briton  told 
How   hearts   were   answering   to   his 
own, 

And  Freedom's  rising  murmur  rolled 
Up  to  the  dull-eared  throne, 

I  saw,  methought,  a  glad  surprise 

Thrill  through   that   frail  and   pain- 
worn  frame, 

And,  kindling  in  those  deep,  calm  eyes, 
A  still  and  earnest  flame. 

His  few,  brief  words  were  such  as  move 
The  human   heart,  —  the  Faith-sown 
seeds 

Which  ripen  in  the  soil  of  love 
To  high  heroic  deeds. 

N"o  bars  of  sect  or  clime  were  felt,  — 
^ke     Babel    strife    of    tongues  had 
ceased,  — 


And  at  one  common  altar  knelt 
The  Quaker  and  the  priest. 

And  not  in  vain  :  with  strength  renewed, 
And  zeal  refreshed,  and  hope  less  dim, 

For  that  brief  meeting,  each  pursued 
The  path  allotted  him. 

How  echoes  yet  each  Western  hill 
And    vale    with    Channing's    dyinf 
word  ! 

How  are  the  hearts  of  freemen  still  t, 
By  that  great  warning  stirred  ! 

The  stranger  treads  his  native  soil, 
And  pleads,  with  zeal  unfelt  before 

The  honest  right  of  British  toil, 
The  claim  of  England's  poor. 

Before  him  time-wrought  barriers  fall, 
Old  fears  subside,  old  hatreds  melt, 

And,  stretching  o'er  the  sea's  blue  wall, 
The  Saxon  greets  the  Celt. 

The  yeoman  on  the  Scottish  lines, 
The  Sheffield  grinder,  worn  and  grim, 

The  delver  in  the  Cornwall  mines, 
Look  up  with  hope  to  him. 

Swart  smiters  of  the  glowing  steel, 
Dark  feeders  of  the  forge's  flame, 

Pali  watchers  at  the  loom  and  wheel, 
Repeat  his  honored  name. 

And  thus  the  influence  of  that  hour 
Of  converse  on  Rhode  Island's  strand 

Lives  in  the  calm,  resistless  power 
Which  moves  our  father-land. 

God  blesses  still  the  generous  thought 
And  still  the  fitting  word  He  speeds 

And  Truth,  at  his  requiring  taught, 
He  quickens  into  deeds. 

Where  is  the  victory  of  the  grave  ? 

What  dust  upon  the  spirit  lies  ? 
God  keeps  the  sacred  life  he  gave,  -  - 

The  prophet  never  dies  ! 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

CHARLES   B.    STORRS, 

LATE    PRESIDENT  OF   WESTERN  RESERVE 
COLLEGE. 

THOU  hast  fallen  in  thine  armor, 
Thou  martyr  of  the  Lord  ! 


134 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


With   thy  last  breath  crying,  —  "On 
ward  ! " 

And  thy  hand  upon  the  sword. 
The  haughty  heart  derideth, 

And  the  sinful  lip  reviles, 
But  the  blessing  of  the  perishing 

Around  thy  pillow  smiles  ! 

When  to  our  cup  of  trembling 

The  added  drop  is  given, 
And  the  long-suspended  thunder 

Falls  terribly  from  Heaven,  — 
"When  a  new  and  fearful  freedom 

Is  proffered  of  the  Lord 
To  the  slow-consuming  Famine,  — 

The  Pestilence  and  Sword  !  — 

When  the  refuges  of  Falsehood 

Shall  be  swept  away  in  wrath, 
And  the  temple  shall  be  shaken, 

With  its  idol,  to  the  earth,  — 
Shall  not  thy  words  of  warning 

Be  all  remembered  then  ? 
And  thy  now  unheeded  message 

Burn  in  the  hearts  of  men  ? 

Oppression's  hand  may  scatter 

Its  nettles  on  thy  tomb, 
And  even  Christian  bosoms 

Deny  thy  memory  room  ; 
For  lying  lips  shall  torture 

Thy  mercy  into  crime, 
And  the  slanderer  shall  flourish 

As  the  bay-tree  for  a  time. 

But  where  the  south-wind  lingers 

On  Carolina's  pines, 
Or  falls  the  careless  sunbeam 

Down  Georgia's  golden  mines,  — 
Where  now  beneath  his  burthen 

The  toiling  slave  is  driven,  — 
Where  now  a  tyrant's  mockery 

Is  offered  unto  Heaven,  — 

Where  Mammon  hath  its  altars 

Wet  o'er  with  human  blood, 
And  pride  and  lust  debases 

The  workmanship  of  God,  — • 
There  shall  thy  praise  be  spoken, 

Redeemed  from  Falsehood's  ban, 
When  the  fetters  shall  be  broken, 

And  the  slave  shall  be  a  man  I 

Joy  to  thy  spirit,  brother  ! 

A  thousand  hearts  are  warm,  — 
A  thousand  kindred  bosoms 

Are  baring  to  the  storm. 


What  though  red-handed  Violence 
With  secret  Fraud  combine  ? 

The  wall  of  fire  is  round  us,  — 
Our  Present  Help  was  thin«. 

Lo,  —  the  waking  up  of  nations, 

From  Slavery's  fatal  sleep,  — 
The  murmur  of  a  Universe,  — 

Deep  calling  unto  Deep  ! 
Joy  to  thy  spirit,  brother  ! 

On  every  wind  of  heaven 
The  onward  cheer  and  summons 

Of  FREEDOM'S  VOICE  is  given  ! 

Glory  to  God  forever  ! 

Beyond  the  despot's  will 
The  soul  of  Freedom  liveth 

Imperishable  still. 
The  words  which  thou  hast  uttered 

Are  of  that  soul  a  part, 
And  the  good  seed  thou  hast  scatters 

Is  springing  from  the  heart. 

In  the  evil  days  before  us, 

And  the  trials  yet  to  come,  — 
In  the  shadow  of  the  prison, 

Or  the  cruel  martyrdom,  — 
We  will  think  of  thee,  0  brother  ! 

And  thy  sainted  name  shall  be 
In  the  blessing  of  the  captive, 

And  the  anthem  of  the  free. 
1834. 

LINES, 

ON   THE   DEATH   OF   S.    O.    TORREY. 

GONE  before  us,  0  our  brother, 

To  the  spirit-land  ! 
Vainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place  to  stand. 
Who  shall  offer  youth  and  beauty 

On  the  wasting  shrine 
Of  a  stern  and  lofty  duty, 

With  a  faith  like  thine  ? 

0,  thy  gentle  smile  of  greeting 

Who  again  shall  see  ? 
Who  amidst  the  solemn  meeting 

Gaze  again  on  thee  ?  — 
Who,  when  peril  gathers  o'er  us, 

Wear  so  calm  a  brow  ? 
Who,  with  evil  men  before  us, 

So  serene  as  thou  ? 

Early  hath  the  spoiler  found  thee, 
Brother  of  our  love  ! 


A  LAMENT. 


135 


Autumn's  faded  earth  around  thee, 

And  its  storms  above  ! 
Evermore  that  turf  lie  lightly, 

And,  with  future  showers, 
O'er  thy  slumbers  fresh  and  brightly 

Blow  the  summer  flowers  ! 

In  the  locks  thy  forehead  gracing, 

Not  a  silvery  streak  ; 
Nor  a  line  of  sorrow's  tracing 

On  thy  fair  young  cheek  ; 
Eyes  of  light  and  lips  of  roses, 

Such  as  Hylas  wore,  — 
Over  all  that  curtain  closes, 

Which  shall  rise  no  more  ! 

"Will  the  vigil  Love  is  keeping 

Round  that  grave  of  thine, 
Mournfully,  like  Jazer  weeping 

Over  Sibmah's  vine,45  — 
Will  the  pleasant  memories,  swelling 

Gentle  hearts,  of  thee, 
jfii  the  spirit's  distant  dwelling 

All  unheeded  be  ? 

If  the  spirit  ever  gazes, 

From  its  journeyings,  back  ; 
If  the  immortal  ever  traces 

O'er  its  mortal  track  ; 
Wilt  thou  not,  0  brother,  meet  us 

Sometimes  on  our  way, 
And,  in  hours  of  sadness,  greet  us 

As  a  spirit  may  ? 

Peace  be  with  thee,  0  our  brother, 

In  the  spirit-land  ! 
Vainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place  to  stand. 
Unto  Truth  and  Freedom  giving 

All  thy  early  powers, 
Be  thy  virtues  with  the  living, 

And  thy  spirit  ours  ! 


A  LAMENT. 

"  The  parted  spirit, 

Knoweth  it  not  our  sorrow  ?    Answereth  not 
Its  blessing  to  our  tears  ?  " 

THE  circle  is  broken,  —  one  seat  is  for 
saken,  — 

One  bud  from  the  tree  of  our  friendship 
is  shaken,  — 

One  heart  from  among  us  no  longer 
shall  thrill 

With  joy  in  our  gladness,  or  grief  in  our 
ill. 


Weep  !  —  lonely  and  lowly  are  slumber- 

ing  now 
The  light  of  her  glances,  the  pride  of  her 

brow, 
Weep  !  —  sadly  and  long  shall  we  listen 

in  vain 
To  hear  the  soft  tones  of  her  welcome 

again. 

Give  our  tears  to  the  dead  !     For  human- 

ity's  claim 
From  its  silence  and  darkness  is  ever  tha 

same  ; 
The  hope  of  that  World  whose  existence 

is  bliss 
May  not  stifle  the  tears  of  the  mourners 

of  this. 

For,  oh  !  if  one  glance  the  freed  spirit 

can  throw 
On  the  scene  of  its  troubled  probation 

below, 
Than  the  pride  of  the  marble,  the  pomp 

of  the  dead, 
To  that  glance  will  be  dearer  the  tears 

which  we  shed. 

0,  who  can  forget  the  mild  light  of  her 

smile, 
Over  lips  moved  with  music  and  feeling 

the  while  — 
The     eye's     deep    enchantment,    dark, 

dream -like,  and  clear, 
In  the  glow  of  its  gladness,  the  shade  of 

its  tear. 

And  the  charm  of  her  features,  while 
over  the  whole 

Played  the  hues  of  the  heart  and  the 
sunshine  of  soul,  — 

And  the  tones  of  her  voice,  like  the  mu 
sic  which  seems 

Murmured  low  in  our  ears  by  the  Angel 
of  dreams  ! 

Biit  holier  and  clearer  our  memories  hold 
Those  treasures  of  feeling,  more  precious 

than  gold,  — 
The   love   and  the  kindness   and  pity 

which  gave 
Fresh    flowers    for    the    bridal,    green 

wreaths  for  the  grave  ! 

The  heart  ever  open  to  Charity's  claim, 
Unmoved  from   its  purpose  by  censure 
and  blame, 


136 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


While  vainly  alike  on  'her  eye  and  her 
ear 

Fell  the  scorn  of  the  heartless,  the  jest 
ing  and  jeer. 

How  true  to  our  hearts  was  that  beauti 
ful  sleeper  ! 

With  smiles  for  the  joyful,  with  tears 
for  the  weeper  !  — 

Yet,  evermore  prompt,  whether  mourn 
ful  or  gay, 

With  warnings  in  love  to  the  passing 
astray. 

For,  though  spotless  herself,  she,  could 
sorrow  for  them 

Who  sullied  with  evil  the  spirit's  pure 
gem; 

And  a  sigh  or  a  tear  could  the  erring  re 
prove, 

And  the  sting  of  reproof  was  still  tem 
pered  by  love. 

As  a  cloud  of  the  sunset,  slow  melting 

in  heaven, 
As  a  star  that  is  lost  when  the  daylight 

is  given, 
As   a  glad   dream   of    slumber,    which 

wakens  in  bliss, 
She  hath   passed  to  the  world  of  the 

holy  from  this. 

DANIEL   WHEELER. 

[DANIEL  WHEELER,  a  minister  of  the  Society  of 
Friends,  and  who  had  labored  in  the  cause  of  his 
Divine  Master  in  Great  Britain,  Russia,  and  the 
islands  of  the  Pacific,  died  in  New  York  in  the 
spring  of  1840,  while  ou  a  religious  visit  to  this 
country.] 

0  DEARLY  loved  ! 

And  worthy  of  our  love  !  —  No  more 
Thy  aged  form  shall  rise  before 
The  hushed  and  waiting  worshipper, 
In  meek  obedience  utterance  giving 
To  words  of  truth,  so  fresh  and  living, 
That,  even  to  the  inward  sense, 
They  bore  unquestioned  evidence 
Of  an  anointed  Messenger  ! 
Or,  bowing  down  thy  silver  hair 
In  reverent  awfulness  of  prayer,  — 
The  world,  its  time  and  sense,  shut 

out,  — 

The  brightness  of  Faith's  holy  trance 
Gathered  upon  thy  countenance, 

As  if  each  lingering  cloud  of  doubt,  — 
The  cold,  dark  shadows  resting  here 


In  Time's  unluminous  atmosphere,  — . 

Were  lifted  by  an  ange/s  hand, 
And  through  them  on  thy  spiritual  eye 
Shone  down  the  blessedness  on  high, 

The  glory  of  the  Better  Land  ! 

The  oak  has  fallen  ! 

While,  meet  for  no  good  work,  the  vine 
May  yet  its  worthless  branches  twine. 
Who  knoweth  not  that  with  thee  fell 
A  great  man  in  our  Israel  ? 
Fallen,  while  thy  loins  were  girded  still 

Thy  feet  with  Zion's  dews  still  wet, 

And  in  thy  hand  retaining  yet 
The  pilgrim's  staff  and  scallop-shell  ! 
Unharmed   and   safe,  where,    wild   and 
free, 

Across  the  Neva's  cold  morass 
The  breezes  from  the  Frozen  Sea 

With  winter's  arrowy  keenness  pass  ; 
Or  where  the  unwarning  tropic  gale 
Smote  to  the  waves  thy  tattered  sail, 
Or  where  the  noon-hour's  fervid  heat 
Against  Tahiti's  mountains  beat  ; 

The   same    mysterious    Hand    which 
gave 

Deliverance  upon  land  and  wave, 
Tempered   for    thee    the   blasts    which 
blew 

Ladaga's  frozen  surface  o'er, 
And  blessed  for  thee  the  baleful  dew 

Of  evening  upon  Eimeo's  shore, 
Beneath  this  sunny  heaven  of  ours, 
Midst  our  soft  airs  and  opening  flowers 

Hath  given  thee  a  grave  ! 

His  will  be  done, 

Who  seeth  not  as  man,  whose  way 
Is    not   as    ours  !  —  'T  is    well    with 

thee  ! 

Nor  anxious  doubt  nor  dark  dismay 
Disquieted  thy  closing  day, 
But,  evermore,  thy  soul  could  say, 

' '  My  Father  careth  still  for  me  ! " 
Called   from   thy  hearth  and   home,  — ™ 

from  her, 

The  last  bud  on  thy  household  tree, 
The  last  dear  one  to  minister 

In  duty  and  in  love  to  thee, 
From  all  which  nature  holdeth  deal', 
Feeble   with    years    and    worn    with 

pain, 

To  seek  our  distant  land  again, 
Bound  in  the  spirit,  yet  unknowing 
The  things  which  should  fee  fall  the* 

here, 
Whether  for  labor  or  for  death, 


DANIEL   NEALL. 


137 


\n  childlike  trust  serenely  going 
To  that  last  trial  of  thy  faith  i 

0,  far  away, 
Where  never  shines  our  Northern  star 

On  that  dark  waste  which  Balboa  saw 
From  Darien's  mountains  stretching  far, 
So  strange,  heaven-broad,  and  lone,  that 

there. 
With  forehead  to  its  damp  wind  bare, 

lie  bent  his  mailed  knee  in  awe  ; 
In  many  an  isle  whose  coral  feet 
The  surges  of  that  ocean  beat, 
In  thy  palm  shadows,  Oahu, 

And  Honolulu's  silver  bay, 
Amidst  Owyhee's  hills  of  blue, 

And  taro-plains  of  Tooboonai, 
Are  gentle  hearts,  which  long  shall  be 
Sad  as  our  own  at  thought  of  thee,  — 
Worn  sowers  of  Truth's  holy  seed, 
Whose  souls  in  weariness  and  need 

Were  strengthened   and  refreshed  by 

thine. 
For  blessed  by  our  Father's  hand 

Was  thy  deep  love  and  tender  care, 

Thy  ministry  and  fervent  prayer,  — 
Grateful  as  Eschol's  clustered  vine  ' 
To  Israel  in  a  weary  land  ! 

And  they  who  drew 
By  thousands  round  thee,  in  the  hour 
Of    prayerful    waiting,    hushed    and 

deep, 

That  He  who  bade  the  islands  keep 
Silence  before  him,  might  renew 

Their  strength  with  his  unslumbering 

power, 
They  too  shall  mourn  that  thou  art  gone, 

That  nevermore  thy  aged  lip 
Shall  soothe  the  weak,  the  erring  warn, 
Of  those  who  first,  rejoicing,  heard 
Through    thee     the    Gospel's    glorious 

word,  — 

Seals  of  thy  true  apostleship. 
And,  if  the  brightest  diadem, 

Whose  gems  of  glory  purely  burn 
Around  the  ransomed  ones  in  bliss, 
Be  evermore  reserved  for  them 
Who  here,  through  toil  and  sorrow, 

turn 

Many  to  righteousness,  — 
May  we  not  think  of  thee  as  wearing 
That  star-like  crown  of  light,  and  bear 
ing, 
Amidst    Heaven's    white    and    blissful 

band, 
The  fadeless  palm-branch  in  thy  hand  ; 


And  joining  with  a  seraph's  tongue 
In  that  new  song  the  elders  sung, 
Ascribing  to  its  blessed  Giver 
Thanksgiving,  love,  and  praise  forever  ! 

Farewell  ! 

And  though  the  ways  of  Zion  mourn 
When  her  strong  ones  are  called  away, 
Who  like  thyself  have  calmly  borne 
The  heat  and  burden  of  the  day, 
Yet  He  who  slurnbereth  not  nor  sleep- 

eth 

His  ancient  watch  around  us  keepeth  ; 
Still,  sent  from  his  creating  hand, 
New  witnesses  for  Truth  shall  stand,  — 
New  instruments  to  sound  abroad 
The  Gospel  of  a  risen  Lord  ; 

To  gather  to  the  fold  once  more 
The  desolate  and  gone  astray, 
The  scattered  of  a  cloudy  day, 

And  Zion's  broken  walls  restore  ; 
And,  through  the  travail  and  the  toil 

Of  true  obedience,  minister 
Beauty  for  ashes,  and  the  oil 

Of  joy  for  mourning,  unto  her  ! 
So  shall  her  holy  bounds  increase 
With  walls  of  praise  and  gates  of  peace  : 
So  shall  the  Vine,  which  martyr  tears 
And  blood  sustained  in  other  years, 

With  fresher  life  be  clothed  upon  ; 
And  to  the  world  in  beauty  show 
Like  the  rose-plant  of  Jericho, 

And  glorious  as  Lebanon  ! 


DANIEL  NEALL. 


FRIEND  of  the  Slave,  and  yet  the  friend 

of  all ; 

Lover  of  peace,  yet  ever  foremost  when 
The  need  of  battling  Freedom  called 
for  men 

To  plant  the  banner  on  the  outer  wall  ; 

Gentle  and  kindly,  ever  at  distress 

Melted  to  more  than  woman's   tender 
ness, 

Yet  firm  and  steadfast,  at  his  duty's  post 

Fronting  the  violence   of    a  maddened 
host, 

Like  some   gray  rock   from  which  the 
waves  are  tossed  ! 

Knowing  his  deeds  of  love,  men  ques 
tioned  not 

The  faith  of  one  whose  walk  and  word 
were  right,  — 


138 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Who   tranquilly  in    Life's   great   task- 
field  wrought, 

And,  side   by  side  with    evil,  scarcely 

caught 
A  stain  upon  his  pilgrim  garb  of  white  : 

Prompt  to  redress  another's  wrong,  his 
own 

Leaving  to  Time  and  Truth  and  Peni- 
tencfe  alone. 


Such  was  our  friend.      Formed  on  the 

good  old  plan, 
A  true  and  brave  and  downright  honest 

man  !/ — 

He  blew  no  trumpet  in  the  market-place, 
Nor  in  the  church  with  hypocritic  face 
Supplied  with  cant  the  lack  of  Christian 

grace  ; 
Loathing  pretence,  he  did  with  cheerful 

will 
What  others  talked  of  while  their  hands 

were  still ; 
And,  while  "  Lord,  Lord  !  "  the  pious 

tyrants  cried, 

Who,  in  the  poor,  their  Master  crucified, 
His  daily  prayer,  far  better  understood 
In  acts  than  words,  was  simply  DOING 

GOOD. 

So  calm,  so  constant  was  his  rectitude, 
That    by  his    loss    alone  we   know  its 

worth, 
And  feel  how  true  a  man  has  walked  with 

us  on  earth. 
Qth  Qth  month,  1846. 


TO  MY  FRIEND  ON  THE  DEATH 
OF   HIS   SISTER.46 

THINE  is  a  grief,   the  depth  of  which 

another 

May  never  know  ; 
Yet,    o'er    the   waters,   0  my  stricken 

brother  ! 
To  thee  I  go. 

I  lean  my  heart  unto  thee,  sadly  folding 

Thy  hand  in  mine  ; 

With  even  the  weakness  of  my  soul  up 
holding 

The  strength  of  thine. 

I  never  knew,  like  thee,  the  dear  de 
parted  ; 
I  stood  not  by 


When,  in  calm  trust,  the  pure  and  tran 
quil-hearted 
Lay  down  to  die. 

And  on  thy  ears  my  words  of  weak  con. 

doling 

Must  vainly  fall  : 
The  funeral  bell  which  in  thy  heart  is 

tolling, 
Sounds  over  all  ! 

I   will   not  mock   thee   with  the    pool 

world's  common 
And  heartless  phrase, 
Nor   wrong   the   memory  of    a  sainted 

woman 
With  idle  praise. 

With  silence  only  as  their  benediction, 

God's  angels  come 

Where,  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  afflic 
tion, 

The  soul  sits  dumb  ! 

Yet,  would  I  say  what  thy  own  heart 

appro veth  : 
Our  Father's  will, 
Calling  to  Him  the  dear  one  whom  He 

loveth, 
Is  mercy  still. 

Not  upon  thee  or  thine  the  solemn  an 
gel 

Hath  evil  wrought : 
Her  funeral  anthem  is  a  glad  evangel,  — • 

The  good  die  not  ! 

God  calls  our  loved  ones,  but  we  lose 

not  wholly 

What  He  hath  given  ; 
They  live    on    earth,    in  thought   and 

deed,  as  truly 
As  in  his  heaven. 

And  she  is  with  thee  ;  in  thy  path  of 
trial  i 

She  walketh  yet ; 
Still  with  the  baptism  of  thy  self-denial 

Her  locks  are  wet. 

Up,  then,  my  brother  !     Lo,  the  fields 

of  harvest 
Lie  white  in  view  ! 
She  lives  and  loves  thee,  and  the  God 

thou  servest 
To  both  is  true. 


THE    LAKE-SIDE. 


139 


Thrust  in  thy  sickle  .'  —  England's  toil- 
worn  peasants 
Thy  call  abide  ; 
And  she  thou  mourn'st,  a  pure  and  holy 

presence, 
Shall  glean  beside  ! 

GONE. 

ANOTHER  hand  is  beckoning  us, 

Another  call  is  given  ; 
And  glows  once  more  with  Angel-steps 

The  path  which  reaches  Heaven. 

Our  young   and  gentle   friend,    whose 

smile- 
Made  brighter  summer  hours, 

Amid  the  frosts  of  autumn  time 
Has  left  us  with  the  flowers. 

No  paling  of  the  cheek  of  bloom 

Forewarned  us  of  decay  ; 
No  shadow  from  the  Silent  Land 

Fell  round  our  sister's  way. 

The  light  of  her  young  life  went  down, 

As  sinks  behind  the  hill 
The  glory  of  a  setting  star,  — 

Clear,  suddenly,  and  still. 

As  pure  and  sweet,  her  fair  brow  seemed 

Eternal  as  the  sky  ; 

And    like    the   brook's   low   song,    her 
voice,  — 

A  sound  which  could  not  die. 

And  half  we  deemed  she  needed  not 

The  changing  of  her  sphere, 
To  give  to  Heaven  a  Shining  One, 

Who  walked  an  Angel  here. 

The  blessing  of  her  quiet  life 

Fell  on  us  like  the  dew  ; 
And  good  thoughts,  where  her  footsteps 
pressed 

Like  fairy  blossoms  grew. 

Sweet  promptings  unto  kindest  deeds 

Were  in  her  very  look  ; 
We  read  her  face,  as  one  who  reads 

A  true  and  holy  book : 

The  measure  of  a  blessed  hymn, 
To  which  our  hearts  could  move  ; 

The  breathing  of  an  inward  psalm  ; 
A  canticle  of  love. 


We  miss  her  in  the  place  of  prayer, 
And  by  the  hearth-tire's  light  ; 

We  pause  beside  her  door  to  hear 
Once  more  her  sweet  "  Good-night !  * 

There  seems  a  shadow  on  the  day, 
Her  smile  no  longer  cheers  ; 

A  dimness  on  the  stars  of  night, 
Like  eyes  that  look  through  tears. 

Alone  unto  our  Father's  will 
One  thought  hath  reconciled  ; 

That  He  whose  love  exceedeth  ours 
Hath  taken  home  his  child. 

Fold  her,  0  Father  !  in  thine  arms, 

And  let  her  henceforth  be 
A  messenger  of  love  between 

Our  human  hearts  and  thee. 

Still  let  her  mild  rebuking  stand 

Between  us  and  the  wrong, 
And  her  dear  memory  serve  to  mako 

Our  faith  in  Goodness  strong. 

And  grant  that  she  who,  trembling,  h.jr 

Distrusted  all  her  powers, 
May  welcome  to  her  holier  home 

The  well-beloved  of  ours. 


THE  LAKE-SIDE. 

THE  shadows  round  the  inland  seu 

Are  deepening  into  night  ; 
Slow  up  the  slopes  of  Ossipee 

They  chase  the  lessening  light. 
Tired  of  the  long  day's  blinding  heat, 

I  rest  my  languid  eye, 
Lake  of    the   Hills  !    where,    cool  and 
sweet, 

Thy  sunset  waters  lie  ! 

Along  the  sky,  in  wavy  lines^, 

O'er  isle  and  reach  and  bay, 
Green-belted  with  eternal  pines, 

The  mountains  stretch  away. 
Below,  the  maple  masses  sleep 

Where  shore  with  water  blends, 
While  midway  on  the  tranquil  deep 

The  evening  light  descends. 

So  seemed  it  when  yon  hill's  red  crown, 

Of  old,  the  Indian  trod, 
And,   through  the    sunset  air,    looked 
down 

Upon  the  Smile  of  God.47 


140 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


To  him  of  light  and  shade  the  laws 

No  forest  sceptic  taught  ; 
Their  living  and  eternal  Cause 

His  truer  instinct  sought. 

He  saw  these  mountains  in  the  light 

Which  now  across  them  shines  ; 
This  lake,  in  summer  sunset  bright, 

Walled  round  with  sombering  pines. 
Gk>d  near  him  seemed  ;  from  earth  and 
skies 

His  loving  voice  he  "heard, 
As,  face  to  face,  in  Paradise, 

Man  stood  before  the  Lord. 

Thanks,  0  our  Father  !  that,  like  him, 

Thy  tender  love  I  see, 
In  radiant  hill  and  woodland  dim, 

And  tinted  sunset  sea. 
For  not  in  mockery  dost  thou  fill 

Our  earth  with  light  and  grace  ; 
Thou  hid'st  no  dark  and  cruel  will 

Behind  thy  smiling  face  ! 


THE   HILL-TOP. 

THE  burly  driver  at  my  side, 

We  slowly  climbed  the  hill, 
Whose  summit,  in  the  hot  noontide, 

Seemed  rising,  rising  still. 
At  last,  our  short  noon-shadows  hid 

The  top-stone,  bare  and  brown, 
From  whence,  like  Gizeh's  pyramid, 

The  rough  mass  slanted  down. 

I  felt  the  cool  breath  of  the  North  ; 

Between  me  and  the  sun, 
O'er  deep,  still  lake,  and  ridgy  earth, 

I  saw  the  cloud-shades  run. 
Before  me,  stretched  for  glistening  miles, 

Lay  mountain-girdled  Squam  ; 
Like  green-winged  birds,  the  leafy  isles 

Upon  its  bosom  swam. 

And,  glimmering  through  the  sun-haze 
warm, 

Far  as  the  eye  could  roam, 
Dark  billows  of  an  earthquake  storm 

Beflecked  with  clouds  like  foam, 
Their  vales  in  misty  shadow  deep, 

Their  rugged  peaks  in  shine, 
I  saw  the  mountain  ranges  sweep 

The  horizon's  northern  line. 

There  towered   Chocoraa's  peak  ;    and 

west, 
Moosehillock's  woods  were  seen, 


With    many    a    nameless    slide-scarred 
crest 

And  pine-dark  gorge  between. 
Beyond  them,  like  a  sun-rimmed  cloud, 

The  great  Notch  mountains  shone, 
Watched  over  by  the  solemn-browed 

And  awful  face  of  stone  ! 

"  A  good  look-off  !  "  the  driver  spake  : 

"  About  this  time,  last  year, 
I  drove  a  party  to  the  Lake, 

And  stopped,  at  evening,  here. 
'T  was  duskish  down  below  ;  but  all 

These  hills  stood  in  the  sun, 
Till,  dipped  behind  yon  purple  wall, 

He  left  them,  one  by  one. 

"  A  lady,  who,  from  Thornton  hill, 

Had  held  her  place  outside, 
And,  as  a  pleasant  woman  will, 

Had  cheered  the  long,  dull  ride, 
Besought  me,  with  so  sweet  a  smile, 

That  —  though  I  hate  delays  — 
I  could  not  choose  but  rest  awhile,  — 

(These  women  have  such  ways  !) 

"  On  yonder  mossy  ledge  she  sat, 

Her  sketch  upon  her  knees, 
A  stray  brown  lock  beneath  her  hat 

Unrolling  in  the  breeze  ; 
Her  sweet  face,  in  the  sunset  light 

Upraised  and  glorified,  — 
I  never  saw  a  prettier  sight 

In  all  my  mountain  ride. 

"  As  good  as  fair  ;  it  seemed  her  joy 

To  comfort  and  to  give  ; 
My  poor,  sick  wife,  and  cripple  boy, 

Will  bless  her  while  they  live  !  " 
The  tremor  in  the  driver's  tone 

His  manhood  did  not  shame  : 
"I  dare  say,  sir,  you  may  haveknown — " 

He  named  a  well-known  name. 

Then  sank  the  pyramidal  mounds, 

The  blue  lake  fled  away  ; 
For  mountain-scope  a  parlor's  bounds, 

A  lighted  hearth  for  day  ! 
From  lonely  years  and  weary  miles 

The  shadows  fell  apart  ; 
Kind     voices    cheered,    sweet    humac 
smiles 

Shone  warm  into  my  heart. 

We  journeyed  on  ;  but  earth  and  sky 
Had  power  to  charm  no  more  ; 

Still  dreamed  my  inward-turning  eye 
The  dream  of  memory  o'er. 


MEMOEIES. 


141 


Ah  !  human  kindness,  human  love,  — 
To  few  who  seek  denied,  — 

Too  late  we  learn  to  prize  above 
The  whole  round  world  beside  ! 


ON      RECEIVING      AN      EAGLE'S 
QUILL  FROM  LAKE  SUPERIOR. 

ALL  day  the  darkness  and  the  cold 

Upon  my  heart  have  lain, 
Like  shadows  on  the  winter  sky, 

Like  frost  upon  the  pane  ; 

But  now  my  torpid  fancy  wakes, 

And,  on  thy  Eagle's  plume, 
Hides  forth,  Kke  Sindbad  on  his  bird, 

Or  witch  upon  her  broom  ! 

Below  me  roar  the  rocking  pines, 

Before  me  spreads  the  lake 
Whose  long  and  solemn-sounding  waves 

Against  the  sunset  break. 

I  hear  the  wild  Rice-Eater  thresh 

The  grain  he  has  not  sown  ; 
]  see,  with  flashing  scythe  of  fire, 

The  prairie  harvest  mown  ! 

I  hear  the  far-off  voyager's  horn  ; 

I  see  the  Yankee's  trail,  — 
His  foot  on  every  mountain-pass, 

On  every  stream  his  sail. 

By  forest,  lake,  and  waterfall, 

I  see  his  pedler  show  ; 
The  mighty  mingling  with  the  mean, 

The  lofty  with  the  low. 

He  's  whittling  by  St.  Mary's  Falls, 

Upon  his  loaded  wain  ; 
He  's  measuring  o'er  the  Pictured  Rocks, 

With  eager  eyes  of  gain. 

I  hear  the  mattock  in  the  mine, 

The  axe-stroke  in  the  dell, 
The  clamor  from  the  Indian  lodge, 

The  Jesuit  chapel  bell ! 

I  see  the  swarthy  trappers  come 

From  Mississippi's  springs  ; 
And  war-chiefs  with  their  painted  brows, 

And  crests  of  eagle  wings. 

Behind  the  scared  squaw's  birch  canoe, 
The  steamer  smokes  and  raves  ; 

And  city  lots  are  staked  for  sale 
Above  old  Indian  graves. 


I  hear  the  tread  of  pioneers 

Of  nations  yet  to  be  ; 
The  first  low  wash  of  waves,  where  soon 

Shall  roll  a  human  sea. 

The  rudiments  of  empire  here 

Are  plastic  yet  and  warm  ; 
The  chaos  of  a  mighty  world 

Is  rounding  into  form  ! 

Each  rude  and  jostling  fragment  soon 
Its  fitting  place  shall  find,  — 

The  raw  material  of  a  State, 
Its  muscle  and  its  mind  ! 

And,  westering  still,  the  star  which  leads 

The  New  World  in  its  train 
Has  tipped  with  fire  the  icy  spears 

Of  many  a  mountain  chain. 

The  snowy  cones  of  Oregon 

Are  kindling  on  its  way  ; 
And  California's  golden  sands 

Gleam  brighter  in  its  ray  ! 

Then  blessings  on  thy  eagle  quill, 
As,  wandering  far  and  wide, 

I  thank  thee  for  this  twilight  dream 
And  Fancy's  airy  ride  ! 

Yet,  welcomer  than  regal  plumes, 
Which  Western  trappers  find, 

Thy  free  and  pleasant  thoughts,  chance 

sown, 
Like  feathers  on  the  wind. 

Thy  symbol  be  the  mountain -bird, 
Whose  glistening  quill  I  hold  ; 

Thy  home  the  ample  air  of  hope, 
And  ^emory's  sunset  gold  ! 

In  thee,  let  joy  with  duty  join, 
And  strength  unite  with  love, 

The  eagle's  pinions  folding  round 
The  warm  heart  of  the  dove  ! 

So,  when  in  darkness  sleeps  the  vale 
Where  still  the  blind  bird  clings, 

The  sunshine  of  the  upper  sky 
Shall  glitter  on  thy  wings  ! 


MEMORIES. 

A  BEAUTIFUL  and  happy  girl, 

With  step  as  light  as  summer  air, 
Eyes  glad  with  smiles,  and  brow  of  pearl. 
Shadowed  by  many  a  careless  curl 
Of  unconfined  and  flowing  hair  ; 


142 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


A  seeming  child  in  everything, 

Save  thoughtful   brow  and   ripening 
charms, 

As  Nature  wears  the  smile  of  Spring 
When  sinking  into  Summer's  arms. 

A  mind  rejoicing  in  the  light 

Which  melted   through  its  graceful 

bower, 

Leaf  after  leaf,  dew-moist  and  bright, 
And  stainless  in  its  holy  white, 

Unfolding  like  a  morning  flower  : 
A  heart,  which,  like  a  line-toned  lute, 

With  every  breath  of  feeling  woke, 
And,  even  when  the  tongue  was  mute, 

From  eye  and  lip  in  music  spoke. 

How  thrills  once  more  the  lengthening 
chain 

Of  memory,  at  the  thought  of  thee  ! 
Old  hopes  which  long  in  dust  have  lain 
Old  dreams,  come  thronging  back  again, 

And  boyhood  lives  again  in  me  ; 
I  feel  its  glow  upon  my  cheek, 

Its  fulness  of  the  heart  is  mine, 
As  when  I  leaned  to  hear  thee  speak, 

Or  raised  my  doubtful  eye  to  thine. 

I  hear  again  thy  low  replies, 

I  feel  thy  arm  within  my  own, 
And  timidly  again  uprise 
The  fringed  lids  of  hazel  eyes, 

With  soft  brown  tresses  overblown. 
Ah  !  memories  of  sweet  summer  eves, 

Of  moonlit  wave  and  willowy  way, 
Of  stars  and  flowers,  and  dewy  leaves, 

And  smiles  and  tones  more  dear  than 
they  ! 

Ere  this,  thy  quiet  eye  hath  smued 

My  picture  of  thy  youth  to  see, 
When,  half  a  woman,  half  a  child, 
Thy  very  artlessness  beguiled, 

And  folly's  self  seemed  wise  in  thee  ; 
I  too  can  smile,  when  o'er  that  hour 

The  lightsof  memory  backward  stream, 
Yet  feel  the  while  that  manhood's  power 

Is  vainer  than  my  boyhood's  dream. 

Years  have  passed  on,  and  left  their  trace, 

Of  graver  care  and  deeper  thought ; 
And  unto  me  the  calm,  cold  face 
Of  manhood,  and  to  thee  the  grace 

Of  woman's  pensive  beauty  brought. 
More  wide,  perchance,  for  blame  than 

praise, 

The   school-boy's   humble   name    has 
flown ; 


Thine,  in  the  green  and  quiet  ways 
Of  unobtrusive  goodness  known. 

And  wider  yet  in  thought  and  deed 

Diverge  our  pathways,  one  in  youth  ; 
Thine  the  Genevan's  sternest  creed, 
While  answers  to  my  spirit's  need 

The  Derby  dalesman's  simple  truth. 
For  thee,  the  priestly  rite  and  prayer, 

And  holy  day,  and  solemn  psalm  ; 
For  me,  the  silent  reverence  where 

My  brethren  gather,  slow  and  calm. 

Yet  hath  thy  spirit  left  on  me 

An  impress  Time  has  worn  not  out, 
And  something  of  myself  in  thee, 
A  shadow  from  the  past,  I  see, 

Lingering,  even  yet,  thy  way  about ; 
Not  wholly  can  the  heart  unlearn 

That  lesson  of  its  better  hours, 
Not  yet  has  Time's  dull  footstep  worn 

To  common  dust  that  path  of  flowers. 

Thus,  while  at  times  before  our  eyes 

The  shadows  melt,  and  fall  apart, 
And,   smiling  through  them,   round  us 

lies 
The  warm  light  of  our  morning  skies,  — 

The  Indian  Summer  of  the  heart  !  — 
In  secret  sympathies  of  mind, 

In  founts  of  feeling  which  retain 
Their    pure,    fresh  flow,    we    yet   may 
find 

Our  early  dreams  not  wholly  vain  ! 

THE   LEGEND   OF  ST.    MARK.48 

THE  day  is  closing  dark  and  cold, 
With  roaring  blast  and  sleety  showers  ; 

And  through  the  dusk  the  lilacs  wear 
The  bloom  of  snow,  instead  of  flowers. 

I  turn  me  from  the  gloom  without, 
To  ponder  o'er  a  tale  of  old, 

A  legend  of  the  age  of  Faith, 

By  dreaming  monk  or  abbess  told. 

On  Tintoretto's  canvas  lives 
That  fancy  of  a  loving  heart, 

In  graceful  lines  and  shapes  of  power, 
And  hues  immortal  as  his  art. 

In  Provence  (so  the  story  runs) 

There  lived  a  lord,  to  whom,  as  slave, 

A  peasant-boy  of  tender  years 

The  chance  of  trade  or  conquest  gave. 


THE   WELL   OF   LOCH   MAREE. 


143 


Forth -looking  from  the  castle  tower, 
Beyond  the  hills  with  almonds  dark, 

The  straining  eye  could  scarce  discern 
The  chapel  of  the  good  St.  Mark. 

And  there,  when  bitter  word  or  fare 
The  service  of  the  youth  repaid, 

By  stealth,  before  that  holy  shrine, 
For  grace  to  bear  his  wrong,  he  prayed. 

The  steed  stamped  at  the  castle  gate, 
The  boar-hunt  sounded  on  the  hill ; 

Why  stayed  the  Baron  from  the  chase, 
With   looks  so  stern,   and  words  so 
ill? 

"  Go,  bind  yon  slave  !  and  let  him  learn, 
By  scath  of  fire  and  strain  of  cord, 

How  ill  they  speed  who  give  dead  saints 
The  homage  due  their  living  lord  !  " 

They  bound  him  on  the  fearful  rack, 
When,  through  the  dungeon's  vaulted 
dark, 

He  saw  the  light  of  shining  robes, 
And  knew  the  face  of  good  St.  Mark. 

Then  sank  the  iron  rack  apart, 

The  cords  released  their  cruel  clasp, 

The  pincers,  with  their  teeth  of  fire, 
Fell  broken  from  the  torturer's  grasp. 

And  lo  !  before  the  Youth  and  Saint, 
Barred  door  and  wall  of  stone  gave  way ; 

And  up  from  bondage  and  the  night 
They    passed    to    freedom    and    the 
day  ! 

0  dreaming  monk  !  thy  tale  is  true  ;  — 
0  painter  !  true  thy  pencil's  art ; 

In  tones  of  hope  and  prophecy, 
Ye  whisper  to  my  listening  heart ! 

Unheard  no  burdened  heart's  appeal 
Moans  up  to  God's  inclining  ear  ; 

Unheeded  by  his  tender  eye, 

Falls  to  the  earth  no  sufferer's  tear. 

For  still  the  Lord  alone  is  God  ! 

The  pomp  and  power  of  tyrant  man 
Are  scattered  at  his  lightest  breath, 

Like  chaff  before  the  winnower's  fan. 

N  ot  always  shall  the  slave  uplift 
His  heavy  hands  to  Heaven  in  vain. 

God's  angel,  like  the  good  St.  Mark, 
Comes  shining  down  to  break  his  chain  ! 


0  weary  ones  !  ye  may  not  see 

Your  helpers  in  their  downward  flight ; 

Nor  hear  the  sound  of  silver  wings 
Slow  beating  through  the  hush  of  night ! 

But  not  the  less  gray  Dothan  shone, 
With  sunbright  watchers  bending  low, 

That  Fear's  dim  eye  beheld  alone 
The  spear-heads  of  the  Syrian  foe. 

There  are,  who,  like  the  Seer  of  old, 
Can  see  the  helpers  God  has  sent, 

And  how  life's  rugged  mountain-side 
Is  white  with  many  an  angel  tent ! 

They  hear  the  heralds  whom  our  Lord 
Sends  down  his  pathway  to  prepare  ; 

And  light,  from  others  hidden,  shines 
On  their  high  place  of  faith  and  prayer. 

Let  such,  for  earth's  despairing  ones, 
Hopeless,  yet  longing  to  be  free, 

Breathe  once  again  the  Prophet's  prayer  : 
' '  Lord,  ope  their  eyes,  that  they  may 
see  ! " 


THE  WELL  OF   LOCH  MAREE.49 

CALM  on  the  breast  of  Loch  Maree 

A  little  isle  reposes  ; 
A  shadow  woven  of  the  oak 

And  willow  o'er  it  closes. 

Within,  a  Druid's  mound  is  seen, 
Set  round  with  stony  warders  ; 

A  fountain,  gushing  through  the  turf, 
Flows  o'er  its  grassy  borders. 

And  whoso  bathes  therein  his  brow, 
With  care  or  madness  burning, 

Feels  once  again  his  healthful  thought 
And  sense  of  peace  returning. 

0  restless  heart  and  fevered  brain, 

Unquiet  and  unstable, 
That  holy  well  of  Loch  Maree 

Is  more  than  idle  fable  ! 

Life's  changes  vex,  its  discords  stun, 
Its  glaring  sunshine  blindeth, 

And  blest  is  he  who  on  his  way 
That  fount  of  healing  findeth  ! 

The  shadows  of  a  humbled  will 
And  contrite  heart  are  o'er  it ; 

Go  read  its  legend —  "  TRUST  IN  GOD  " 
On  Faith's  white  stones  before  it. 


144 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


TO   MY  SISTER; 

WITH  A  COPY  OF  ' '  SUPERNATURALISM 
OF  NEW  ENGLAND." 

DEAR  SISTER  !  —  while  the  wise  and  sage 
Turn  coldly  from  my  playful  page, 
And  count  it  strange  that  ripened  age 

Should  stoop  to  boyhood's  folly  ; 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  judge  aright 
Of  all  which  makes  the  heart  more  light, 
Or  lends  one  star-gleam  to  the  night 

Of  clouded  Melancholy. 

Away  with  weary  cares  and  themes  !  — 
Swing  wide  the  moonlit  gate  of  dreams  ! 
Leave  free  once  more  the  land  which  teems 

With  wonders  and  romances  ! 
Where  thou,  with  clear  discerning  eyes, 
Shalt  rightly  read  the  truth  which  lies 
Beneath  the  quaintly  masking  guise 

Of  wild  and  wizard  fancies. 

Lo  !  once  again  our  feet  we  set 

On  still  green  wood-paths,  twilight  wet, 

By  lonely  brooks,  whose  waters  fret 

The  roots  of  spectral  beeches  ; 
Again  the  hearth-fire  glimmers  o'er 
Home's  whitewashed  wall  and  painted 

floor, 
And  young  eyes  widening  to  the  lore 

Of  faery-folks  and  witches. 

Dear  heart  !  —  the  legend  is  not  vain 
Which  lights  that  holy  hearth  again, 
And  calling  back  from  care  and  pain, 

And  death's  funereal  sadness, 
Draws  round  its  old  familiar  blaze 
The  clustering  groups  of  happier  days, 
And  lends  to  sober  manhood's  gaze 

A  glimpse  of  childish  gladness. 

And,  knowing  how  my  life  hath  been 
A  weary  work  of  tongue  and  pen, 
A  long,  harsh  strife  with  strong-willed 
men, 

Thou  wilt  not  chide  my  turning 
To  con,  at  times,  an  idle  rhyme, 
To  pluck  a  flower  from  childhood's  clime, 
Or  listen,  at  Life's  noonday  chime, 

For  the  sweet  bells  of  Morning  ! 

AUTUMN  THOUGHTS. 
FROM  "MARGARET  SMITH'S  JOURNAL." 

GONE  hath  the  Spring,  with  all  its  flow 
ers, 
And  gone  the  Summer' s  pomp  and  show, 


And  Aiitumn,  in  his  leafless  bowers, 
Is  waiting  for  the  Winter's  snow. 

I  said  to  Earth,  so  cold  and  gray, 
"  An  emblem  of  myself  thou  art "  ; 

"  Not  so,"  the  Earth  did  seem  to  say,  ' 
' '  For    Spring  shall  warm  my  frozen 
heart." 

I  soothe  my  wintry  sleep  with  dreams 
Of  warmer  sun  and  softer  rain, 

And  wait  to  hear  the  sound  of  streams 
And  songs  of  merry  birds  again. 

But  thou,  from  whom  the  Spring  hath 
gone, 

For  whom  the  flowers  no  longer  blow, 
Who  standest  blighted  and  forlorn, 

Like  Autumn  waiting  for  the  snow  : 

No  hope  is  thine  of  sunnier  hours, 
Thy  Winter  shall  no  more  depart  ; 

No  Spring  revive  thy  wasted  flowers, 
Nor  Summer  warm  thy  frozen  heart. 


CALEF  IN  BOSTON. 
1692. 

IN  the  solemn  days  of  old, 
Two  men  met  in  Boston  town, 

One  a  tradesman  frank  and  bold, 
One  a  preacher  of  renown. 

Cried  the  last,  in  bitter  tone,  — 
"  Poisoner  of  the  wells  of  truth  ! 

Satan's  hireling,  thou  hast  sown 
With  his  tares  the  heart  of  youth  ! ' 

Spake  the  simple  tradesman  then,  — 
"  God  be  judge  'twixt  thou  and  I  ; 

All  thou  knowest  of  truth  hath  been 
Unto  men  like  thee  a  lie. 

"  Falsehoods  which  we  spurn  to-day 
Were  the  truths  of  long  ago  ; 

Let  the  dead  boughs  fall  away, 
Fresher  shall  the  living  grow. 

"  God  is  good  and  God  is  light, 
In  this  faith  I  rest  secure  ; 

Evil  can  but  serve  the  right, 
Over  all  shall  love  endure. 

"  Of  your  spectral  puppet  play 
I  have  traced  the  cunning  wires  ; 


TO   PIUS   IX. 


145 


Come  what  will,  I  needs  must  say, 
God  is  true,  and  ye  are  liars." 

When  the  thought  of  man  is  free, 
Error  fears  its  lightest  tones]; 

•So  the  priest  cried,  "  Sadducee  !  " 
And  the  people  took  up  stones. 

In  the  ancient  burying-ground, 
Side  by  side  the  twain  now  lie,  — 

One  with  humble  grassy  mound, 
One  with  marbles  pale  and  high. 

But  the  Lord  hath  blest  the  seed 
Which  that  tradesman  scattered  then, 

And  the  preacher's  spectral  creed 
Chills  no  more  the  blood  of  men. 

Let  us  trust,  to  one  is  known 

Perfect  love  which  casts  out  fear, 

While  the  other's  joys  atone 
For  the  wrong  he  suffered  here. 


TO   PIUS  IX.so 

THE  cannon's  brazen  lips  are  cold  ; 

No  red  shell  blazes  down  the  air  ; 
And  street  and  tower,  and  temple  old, 

Are  silent  as  despair. 

The  Lombard  stands  no  more  at  bay,  — 
Rome's  fresh  young  life  has  bled  in 
vain  ; 

The  ravens  scattered  by  the  day 
Come  back  with  night  again. 

Now,  while  the  fratricides  of  France 
Are  treading  on  the  neck  of  Rome, 

Hider  at  Gaeta,  —  seize  thy  chance  ! 
Coward  and  cruel,  come  ! 

Creep  now  from  Naples'  bloody  skirt ; 

Thy  mummer's  part  was  acted  well, 
While  Rome,  with  steel  and  fire  begirt, 

Before  thy  crusade  fell  ! 

Her  death-groans  answered  to  thy  prayer ; 

Thy    chant,    the    drum    and    bugle- 
call  ; 
Thy  lights,  the  burning  villa's  glare  ; 

Thy  beads,  the  shell  and  ball  ! 

Let  Austria  clear  thy  way,  with  hands 
Foul  from  Ancona's  cruel  sack, 

And  Naples,  with  his  dastard  bands 
Of  murderers,  lead  thee  back  ! 
10 


Rome's  lips  are  dumb  ;  the  orphan's  wail, 
The  mother's  shriek,  thou  mayst  not 
hear 

Above  the  faithless  Frenchman's  hail, 
The  unsexed  shaveling's  cheer  ! 

Go,  bind  on  Rome  her  cast-off  weight, 
The  double  curse  of  crook  and  crown, 

Though  woman's  scorn  and  manhood's 

hate 
From  wall  and  roof  flash  down  ! 

Nor  heed  those  blood-stains  on  the  wall, 
Not  Tiber's  flood  can  wash  away, 

Where,  in  thy  stately  Quirinal, 
Thy  mangled  victims  lay  ! 

Let  the  world  murmur  ;  let  its  cry 
Of  horror  and  disgust  be  heard  ;  — 

Truth  stands  alone  ;  thy  coward  lie 
Is  backed  by  lance  and  sword  ! 

The  cannon  of  St.  Angelo, 

And  chanting  priest  and  clanging  belL 
And  beat  of  drum  and  bugle  blow, 

Shall  greet  thy  coming  well  ! 

Let  lips  of  iron  and  tongues  of  slaves 

Fit  welcome  give  thee  ;  —  for  her  part, 
Rome,     frowning    o'er    her     new-made 


graves, 
mil  cur 


Shall  curse  thee  from  her  heart  ! 


No  wreaths  of  sad  Campagna's  flowers 
Shall  childhood  in  thy  pathway  fling ; 

No  garlands  from  their  ravaged  bowers 
Shall  Term's  maidens  bring  ; 

But,  hateful  as  that  tyrant  old, 
The  mocking  witness  of  his  crime, 

In  thee  shall  loathing  eyes  behold 
The  Nero  of  our  time  ! 

Stand  where  Rome's  blood  was  freest  shed, 
Mock  Heaven  with  impious   thanks, 

in  ' 

and  call 

I  Its  curses  on  the  patriot  dead, 
Its  blessings  on  the  Gaul  ! 

I  Or  sit  upon  thy  throne  of  lies, 

A  poor,  mean  idol,  blood-besmeared, 
Whom  even  its  worshippers  despise,  — 
Unhonored,  unrevered  ! 

Yet,  Scandal  of  the  World  !  from  thee 
One    needful    truth    mankind    shall 
leam.,  — 


146 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


That  kings  and  priests  to  Liberty 
And  God  are  false  in  turn. 

Earth  wearies  of  them  ;   and  the  long 
Meek  sufferance  of  the  Heavens  doth 
fail; 

Woe  for  weak  tyrants,  when  the  strong 
Wake,  struggle,  and  prevail  ! 

Not  vainly  Roman  hearts  have  bled 
To  feed  the  Crozier  and  the  Crown, 

If,  roused  thereby,  the  world  shall  tread 
The  twin-born  vampires  down  ! 


ELLIOTT." 

HANDS  off !   thou  tithe-fat  plunderer  ! 
play 

No  trick  of  priestcraft  here  ! 
Back,  puny  lordling  !  darest  thou  lay 

A  hand  on  Elliott's  bier  ? 
Alive,  your  rank  and  pomp,  as  dust, 

Beneath  his  feet  he  trod  : 
He  knew  the  locust  swarm  that  cursed 

The  harvest-fields  of  God. 

On    these    pale    lips,     the    smothered 
thought 

Which  England's  millions  feel, 
A  fierce  and  fearful  splendor  caught, 

As  from  his  forge  the  steel. 
Strong-armed  as  Thor, —  a  shower  of  fire 

His  smitten  anvil  flung  ; 
God's  curse,  Earth's  wrong,  dumb  Hun 
ger's  ire,  — 

He  gave  them  all  a  tongue  ! 

Then  let  the  poor  man's  horny  hands 

Bear  up  the  mighty  dead, 
And  labor's  swart  and  stalwart  bands 

Behind  as  mourners  tread. 
Leave    cant  and    craft    their    baptized 
bounds, 

Leave  rank  its  minster  floor  ; 
Give    England's     green     and     daisied 
grounds 

The  poet  of  the  poor  ! 

Lay  down  upon  his  Sheaf's  green  verge 

That  brave  old  heart  of  oak, 
With  fitting  dirge  from  sounding  forge, 

And  pall  of  furnace  smoke  ! 
Where  whirls  the  stone  its  dizzy  rounds, 

And  axe  and  sledge  are  swung, 
And,  timing  to  their  stormy  sounds, 

His  stormy  lays  are  sung. 


There  let  the  peasant's  step  be  heard, 

The  grinder  chant  his  rhyme  ; 
Nor  patron's  praise  nor  dainty  word 

Befits  the  man  or  time. 
No  soft  lament  nor  dreamer's  sigh 

For  him  whose  words  were  bread,  ~- 
The  Runic  rhyme  and  spell  whereby 

The  foodless  poor  were  fed  ! 

Pile  up  thy  tombs  of  rank  and  pride, 

0  England,  as  thou  wilt  ! 
With  pomp  to  nameless  worth  denied, 

Emblazon  titled  guilt  ! 
No  part  or  lot  in  these  we  claim  ; 

But,  o'er  the  sounding  wave, 
A  common  right  to  Elliott's  name, 

A  freehold  in  his  grave ! 


ICHABOD  ! 

So   fallen  !    so    lost  !    the    light   with 
drawn 

Which  once  he  wore  ! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Fore  verm  ore  ! 

Revile  him  not,  —  the  Tempter  hath 

A  snare  for  all ; 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall  ! 

0,  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 

Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn  !     would    the    angels    laugh,    tfl 
mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 

From  hope  and  heaven  ! 

Let  not  the  land  once  proud  of  him 

Insult  him  now, 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow. 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naught 

Save  power  remains,  — 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 

Still  strong  in  chains. 


THE   CHRISTIAN   TOURISTS. 


147 


All  else  is  gone  -,  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  has  fled : 
When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 

The  man  is  dead  ! 

Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame  ; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame  ! 


THE   CHRISTIAN   TOURISTS.52 

No    aimless    wanderers,    by  the    fiend 

Unrest 

Goaded  from  shore  to  shore  ; 
No  schoolmen,  turning,   in  their  classic 

quest, 

The  leaves  of  empire  o'er. 
Simple  of  faith,   and  bearing  in   their 

hearts 

The  love  of  man  and  God, 
Isles  of  old  song,  the  Moslem's  ancient 

marts, 
And  Scythia's  steppes,  they  trod. 

Where  the  long  shadows  of  the  fir  and  pine 

In  the  night  sun  are  cast, 
And  the  deep  heart  of  many  a  Norland 

mine 

Quakes  at  each  riving  blast  ; 
Where,   in  barbaric  grandeur,    Moskvva 

stands, 

A  baptized  Scythian  queen, 
With  Europe's  arts  and  Asia's  jewelled 

hands, 
The  North  and  East  between  ! 

Where  still,   through  vales  of  Grecian 

fable,  stray 

The  classic  forms  of  yore, 
And  beauty  smiles,  new  risen  from  the 

spray, 

And  Dian  weeps  once  more  ; 
Where  every  tongue  in   Smyrna's  mart 

resounds  ; 

And  Stamboul  from  the  sea 
Lifts    her    tall    minarets     over  burial- 
grounds 
Black  with  the  cypress-tree  ! 

From  Malta's   temples  to  the  gutes  of 

Rome, 

Following  the  track  of  Paul, 
And  where   the  Alps   gird   round,    t 

Switzer's  home 
Their  vast,  eternal  wall ; 


They  paused  not  by  the  ruins  of  old 

time, 

They  scanned  no  pictures  rare, 
Nor    lingered    where    the  snow-locked 

mountains  climb 
The  cold  abyss  of  air  ! 

3ut  unto  prisons,  where   men  lay  in 

chains, 

To  haunts  where  Hunger  pined,, 
To  kings   and   courts  forgetful  of  the 

pains 

And  wants  of  human-kind, 
Scattering  sweet  words,  and  quiet  deeds 

of  good, 

Along  their  way,  like  flowers, 
Or  pleading,   as   Christ's   freemen   only 

could, 
With  princes  and  with  powers  ; 

Their  single   aim   the  purpose  to  ful 
fil 

Of  Truth,  from  day  to  day, 
Simply  obedient  to  its  guiding  will, 

They  held  their  pilgrim  way. 
Yet  dream  not,  hence,  the  beautiful  and 

old 

Were  wasted  on  their  sight, 
Who  in  the  school  of  Christ  had  learned 

to  hold 
All  outward  things  aright. 

Not  less  to  them  the  breath  of  vineyards 

blown 

From  off  the  Cyprian  shore, 
Not   less  for  them  the  Alps  in  sunset 

shone, 

That  man  they  valued  more. 
A  life  of  beauty  lends  to  all  it  sees 

The  beauty  of  its  thought ; 
And  fairest  forms  and  sweetest  harmo 
nies 
Make  glad  its  way,  unsought. 

In    sweet    accordancy    of     praise    and 

love, 

The  singing  waters  run  ; 
And    sunset   mountains   wear   in   light 

above 

The  smile  of  duty  done  ; 
Sure  stands  the  promise,  — ever  to  the 

meek 

A  heritage  is  given  ; 
Nor  lose  they  Earth  who,  single-hearted, 

seek 
The  righteousness  of  Heaven  ! 


148 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  MEN   OF   OLD. 

WELL  speed  thy  mission,   bold   Icono 
clast  ! 
Yet   all  unworthy  of  its  trust  thou 

art, 
If,  with  dry  eye,  and  cold,   unloving 

heart, 
Thou  tread'st  the  solemn  Pantheon  of 

the  Past, 
By  the  great  Future's  dazzling  hope 

made  blind 
To  all  the  beauty,  power,  and  truth 

behind. 
Not  without  reverent  awe  shouldst  thou 

put  by 

The  cypress  branches  and  the  ama 
ranth  blooms, 
"Where,  with  clasped  hands  of  prayer, 

upon  their  tombs 
The  effigies  of  old  confessors  lie, 
God's  witnesses  ;  the  voices  of  his  will, 
Heard   in  the  slow  inarch  of  the  cen 
turies  still  ! 
Such  were  the  men  at  whose  rebuking 

frown, 
Dark   with   God's  wrath,   the   tyrant's 

knee  went  down  ; 

Such  from  the  terrors  of  the  guilty  drew 
The  vassal's  freedom  and  the  poor  man's 
due. 

St.  Anselm  (may  he  rest  forevermore 
In  Heaven's  sweet  peace  !)    forbade, 

of  old,  the  sale 
Of  men  as  slaves,  and  from  the  sacred 

pale 
Hurled  the  Northumbrian  buyers  of  the 

poor. 
To  ransom  souls  from  bonds  and   evil 

fate 
St.    Ambrose   melted  down   the   sacred 

plate,  — 

Image  of  saint,  the  chalice,  and  the  pix, 
Crosses  of  gold,  and  silver  candlesticks. 

"  MAN    IS    WORTH     MORE      THAN    TEM 
PLES  ! "  he  replied 

To  such  as  came  his  holy  work  to  chide. 

And  brave  Cesarius,  stripping  altars  bare, 
And  coining  from  the  Abbey's  golden 
hoard 

The  captive's  freedom,  answered  to  the 

prayer 

Or  threat  of  those  whose  fierce  zeal  for 
the  Lord 

Stifled  their  love  of  man,  —  "  An  earth 
en  dish 


The  last  sad  supper  of  the  Master  bore : 
Most  miserable  sinners  !  do  ye  wish 
More  than  your  Lord,  and  grudge  his 

dying  poor 
What  your  own  pride  and  not  his  need 

requires  ? 
Souls,  than  these  shining  gauds,  He 

values  more  ; 

Mercy,  not  sacrifice,  his  heart  desires  !  " 
0  faithful  worthies  !  resting  far  behind 
In  your  dark  ages,  since  ye  fell  asleep, 
Much  has  been  done  for  truth  and  hu 
man-kind,  — 
Shadows  are  scattered  wherein  ye  groped 

blind  ; 
Man  claims  his  birthright,  freer  pulses 

leap 
Through  peoples  driven  in  your  day  like 

sheep  ; 
Yet,  like  your  own,  our  age's  sphere  of 

light, 
Though  widening  still,  is  walled  around 

by  night ; 
With  slow,  reluctant  eye,  the  Church  has 

read, 

Sceptic  at  heart,  the  lessons  of  its  Head  ; 
Counting,   too   oft,   its  living  members 

less 
Than  the  wall's  garnish  and  the  pulpit's 

dress  ; 
World-moving  zeal,  writh  power  to  bless 

and  feed 
Life's  fainting  pilgrims,  to  their  utter 

need, 
Instead  of  bread,  holds  out  the  stone  of 

creed  ; 
Sect    builds    and   worships    where    its 

wealth  and  pride 

And  vanity  stand  shrined  and  deified, 
Careless  that  in  the  shadow  of  its  walls 
God's  living  temple  into  ruin  falls. 
We  need,   methinks,    the   prophet-hero 

still, 
Saints  true  of  life,  and  martyrs  strong  of 

will, 
To  tread  the  land,  even  now,  as  Xavier 

trod 
The  streets  of  Goa,  barefoot,  with  his 

bell, 

Proclaiming  freedom  in  the  name  of  God, 
And  startling  tyrants  with  the  fear  of 

hell  ! 
Soft    words,    smooth   prophecies,    are 

doubtless  well  ; 

But  to  rebuke  the  age's  popular  crime, 
We  need  the  souls  of  fire,  the  hearts  o\ 

that  old  time  ! 


THE   PEACE    CONVENTION   AT   BRUSSELS. 


149 


THE     PEACE     CONVENTION     AT 
BKUSSELS. 

STILL  in  thy  streets,  0  Paris  !  doth  the 
stain 

Of  blood  defy  the  cleansing  autumn  rain ; 

Still  breaks  the  smoke  Messina's  ruins 
through, 

And  Naples  mourns  that  nsw  Bartholo 
mew, 

When  squalid  beggary,  for  a  dole  of  oread, 

At  a  crowned  murderer's  beck  of  license, 
fed 

The  yawning  trenches  with  her  noble 
dead ; 

Still,  doomed  Vienna,  through  thy  stately 
halls 

The  shell  goes  crashing  and  the  red  shot 
falls, 

And,  leagued  to  crush  thee,  on  the  Dan 
ube's  side, 

The  bearded  Croat  and  Bosniak  spear 
man  ride  ; 

Still  in  that  vale  where  Himalaya's  snow 

Melts  round  the  cornfields  and  the  vines 
below, 

The  Sikh's  hot  cannon,  answering  ball 
for  ball, 

Flames  in  the  breach  of  Moultan's  shat 
tered  wall ; 

On  Chenab's  side  the  vulture  seeks  the 
slain, 

And  Sutlej  paints  with  blood  its  banks 
again. 

"  What  folly,  then,"  the  faithless  critic 
cries, 

With  sneering  lip,  and  wise  world-know 
ing  eyes, 

"While  fort  to  fort,  and  post  to  post, 
repeat 

The  ceaseless  challenge  of  the  war-drum's 
beat, 

And  round  the  green  earth,  to  the  church- 
bell's  chime, 

The  morning  drum -roll  of  the  camp 
keeps  time, 

To  dream  of  peace  amidst  a  world  in  arms, 

Of  swords  to  ploughshares  changed  by 
Scriptural  charms, 

Of  nations,  drunken  with  the  wine  of 
blood, 

Staggering  to  take  the  Pledge  of  Broth- 
<  erhood, 

Like  tipplers  answering  Father  Mathew's 
call,  — 

The  sullen  Spaniard,  and  the  mad-cap 
Gaul, 


The  bull-dog  Briton,  yielding  but  with 

life, 

The  Yankee  swaggering  with  his  bowie- 
knife, 

The  Russ,  from  banquets  with  the  vul 
ture  shared, 
The  blood  still  dripping  from  his  amber 

beard, 
Quitting  their  mad  Berserker  dance  to 

hear 
The  dull,  meek  droning  of  a  drab-coat 

seer  ; 
Leaving  the   sport    of    Presidents   and 

Kings, 
Where  men  for  dice  each  titled  gambler 

flings, 
To    meet   alternate   on  the   Seine  and 

Thames, 
For   tea   and   gossip,  like   old  country 

dames  ! 
No  !  let  the  cravens  plead  the  weakling's 

cant, 

Let  Cobden  cipher,  and  let  Vincent  rant, 
Let  Sturge  preach  peace  to   democratic 

throngs, 
And  Burritt,    stammering  through  his 

hundred  tongues, 

Repeat,  in  all,  his  ghostly  lessons  o'er, 
Timed  to  the  pauses  of  the  battery's  roar; 
Check  Ban  or  Kaiser  with  the  barricade 
Of  "  Olive- leaves"  and  Resolutions  made, 
Spike  guns  with  pointed  Scripture-texts, 

and  hope 

To  capsize  navies  with  a  windy  trope  ; 
Still  shall  the  glory  and  the  pomp  of  War 
Along  their  train  the  shouting  millions 

draw  ; 

Still  dusty  Labor  to  the  passing  Brave 
His  cap  shall  doff,  and  Beauty's  kerchief 

wave  ; 

Still  shall  the  bard  to  Valor  tune  his  song, 
Still  Hero-worship  kneel  before  the 

Strong  ; 

Rosy  and  sleek,  the  sable-gowned  divine, 
O'er  his  third  bottle  of  suggestive  wine, 
To  plumed  and  sworded  auditors,  shall 

prove 
Their  trade  accordant  with  the  La\r  of 

Love  ; 
And  Church  for  State,    and  State  for 

Church,  shall  fight, 
And  both  agree,    that   Might  alone  is 

Right  ! " 
Despite  of  sneers  like  these,  0  faithful 

few, 

Who  dare  to  hold  God's  word  and  wit 
ness  true, 


150 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


"Whose   clear-eyed   faith  transcends  our 

evil  time, 

And  o'er  the  present  wilderness  of  crime 
Sees  the  calm  future,  with  its  robes  of 

green, 
Its   fleece-flecked   mountains,    and   soft 

streams  between,  — 
Still  keep  the  path  which  duty  bids  ye 

tread, 

Though  worldly  wisdom  shake  the  cau 
tious  head  ; 
No  truth  from  Heaven  descends  upon 

our  sphere, 
Without   the  greeting   of   uie   sceptic's 

sneer  ; 
Denied  and  mocked  at,  till  its  blessings 

fall, 
Common  as  dew  and  sunshine,  over  all. 

Then,  o'er  Earth's  war-field,  till  the 

strife  shall  cease, 
Like  Morven's  harpers,  sing  your  song 

of  peace  ; 

As  in  old  fable  rang  the  Thracian's  lyre, 
Midst  howl  of  fiends  and  roar  of  penalfire, 
Till  the  fierce  din  to  pleasing  murmurs 

fell, 
And  love  subdued  the  maddened  heart 

of  hell. 
Lend,    once   again,    that    holy   song   a 

tongue, 
Which   the  glad  angels  of  the  Advent 

sung, 
Their  cradle-anthem   for  the  Saviour's 

birth, 

Glory  to  God,  and  peace  unto  the  earth  ! 
Through  the  mad  discord  send  that 

calming  word 
Which  wind  and  wave  on  wild  Genesa- 

reth  heard, 
Lift  in  Christ's  name  his  Cross  against 

the  Sword  ! 
Not  vain  the  vision  which  the  prophets 

saw, 

Skirting  with  green  the  fiery  waste  of  war, 
Through  the  hot  sand-gleam,  looming 

soft  and  calm 
On  the  sky's  rim,  the  fountain-shading 

palm. 
Still  lives  for  Earth,  which  fiends  so  long 

have  trod, 
The  great  hope  resting  on  the  truth  of 

God,  - 

Evil  shall  cease  and  Violence  pass  away, 
And  the  tired  world  breathe  free  through 

a  long  Sabbath  day. 
lltAmo.,1848. 


THE  WISH  OF  TO-DAY. 

I  ASK  not  now  for  gold  to  gild 

With  mocking  shine  a  weary  frame  • 

The  yearning  of  the  mind  is  stilled,  — 
I  ask  not  now  for  Fame. 

A  rose-cloud,  dimly  seen  above, 

Melting    in     heaven's     blue     depths 
away,  — 

0,  sweet,  fond  dream  of  human  Love  ! 
For  thee  I  may  not  pray. 

But,  bowed  in  lowliness  of  mind, 

I  make  my  humble  wishes  known,  — 
I  only  ask  a  will  resigned, 

0  Father,  to  thine  own  ! 

To-day,  beneath  thy  chastening  eye 

1  crave  alone  for  peace  and  rest, 
Submissive  in  thy  hand  to  lie, 

And  feel  that  it  is  best. 

A  marvel  seems  the  Universe, 
A  miracle  our  Life  and  Death  ; 

A  mystery  which  I  cannot  pierce, 
Around,  above,  beneath. 

In  vain  I  task  my  aching  brain, 
In  vain  the  sage's  thought  I  scan, 

I  only  feel  how  weak  arid  vain, 
How  poor  and  blind,  is  man. 

And  now  my  spirit  sighs  for  home, 
And  longs  for  light  whereby  to  see, 

And,  like  a  weary  child,  would  come, 
0  Father,  unto  thee  ! 

Though  oft,  like  letters  traced  on  sand, 
My  weak  resolves  have  passed  away, 

In  mercy  lend  thy  helping  hand 
Unto  my  prayer  to-day  ! 


OUE  STATE. 

THE  South -land  boasts  its  teeming  cane, 
The  prairied  West  its  heavy  grain, 
And  sunset's  radiant  gates  unfold 
On  rising  marts  and  sands  of  gold  ! 

Bough,  bleak,  and  hard,  our  little  Stata 
Is  scant  of  soil,  of  limits  strait  ; 
Her  yellow  sands  are  sands  alone, 
Her  only  mines  are  ice  and  stone  J 


TO   A.   K. 


151 


From  Autumn  frost  to  April  rain, 
Too  long  her  winter  woods  complain  ; 
From  budding  flower  to  falling  leaf, 
Her  summer  time  is  all  too  brief. 

Yet,  on  her  rocks,  and  on  her  sands, 
And  wintry  hills,  the  school-house  stands, 
And  what  her  rugged  soil  denies, 
The  harvest  of  the  mind  supplies. 

'The  riches  of  the  Commonwealth 

Are  free,    strong  minds,  and  hearts  of 

health  ; 

And  more  to  her  than  gold  or  grain, 
The  cunning  hand  and  cultured  brain. 

For  well  she  keeps  her  ancient  stock, 
The  stubborn  strength  of  Pilgrim  Rock  ; 
And  still  maintains,  with  milder  laws, 
And  clearer  light,  the  Good  Old  Cause  ! 

Nor  heeds  the  sceptic's  puny  hands, 
While  near  her  school  the  church-spire 

stands  ; 

Nor  fears  the  blinded  bigot's  rule, 
While  near  her  church-spire  stands  the 

school. 


ALL'S  WELL. 

THE  clouds,  which  rise  with  thunder, 
slake 

Our  thirsty  souls  with  rain  ; 
The  blow  most  dreaded  falls  to  break 

From  off  our  limbs  a  chain  ; 
And  wrongs  of  man  to  man  but  make 

The  love  of  God  more  plain. 
As  through  the  shadowy  lens  of  even 
The  eye  looks  farthest  into  heaven 
On  gleams  of  star  and  depths  of  blue 
The  glaring  sunshine  never  knew  ! 


SEED-TIME   AND   HARVEST. 

As  o'er  his  furrowed  fields  which  lie 
Beneath  a  coldly-dropping  sky, 
Yet  chill  with  winter's  melted  snow, 
The  husbandman  goes  forth  to  sow, 

Thus,  Freedom,  on  the  bitter  blast 
The  ventures  of  thy  seed  we  cast, 
And  trust  to  warmer  sun  and  rain 
To  swell  the  germs  and  fill  the  grain. 

Who  calls  thy  glorious  service  hard  ? 
Who  deems  it  not  its  own  reward  ? 


Who,  for  its  trials,  counts  it  less 
A  cause  of  praise  and  thankfulness  ? 

It  may  not  be  our  lot  to  wield 
The  sickle  in  the  ripened  field  ; 
Nor  ours  to  hear,  on  summer  eves, 
The  reaper's  song  among  the  sheaves. 

Yet  where  our  duty's  task  is  wrought 
In  unison  with  God's  great  thought, 
The  near  and  future  blend  in  one, 
And  whatsoe'er  is  willed,  is  done  ! 

And  ours  the  grateful  service  whence 
Comes,  day  by  day,  the  recompense  ; 
The  hope,  the  trust,  the  purpose  stayed, 
The  fountain  and  the  noonday  shade. 

And  were  this  life  the  utmost  span, 
The  only  end  and  aim  of  man, 
Better  the  toil  of  fields  like  these 
Than  waking  dream  and  slothful  ease. 

But  life,  though  falling  like  our  grain, 
Like  that  revives  and  springs  again  ; 
And,  early  called,  how  blest  are  they 
Who  wait  in  heaven  their  harvest-day  ! 


TO  A.    K. 

ON  RECEIVING  A  BASKET  OF  SEA-MOSSES. 

THANKS  for  thy  gift 

Of  ocean  flowers, 
Born  where  the  golden  drift 
Of  the  slant  sunshine  falls 
Down  the  green,  tremulous  walls 
Of  water,  to  the  cool  still  coral  bowers, 
Where,    under  rainbows  of  perpetual 

showers, 

God's  gardens  of  the  deep 
His  patient  angels  keep  ; 
Gladdening  the  dim,  strange  solitude 
With  fairest  forms  and  hues,  and 

thus 

Forever  teaching  us 

The  lesson  which  the  many-colored  skies, 
The   flowers,   and   leaves,    and   painted 

butterflies, 
The   deer's   branched   antlers,    the   gay 

bird  that  flings 
The   tropic   sunshine   from    its    golden 

wings, 

The  brightness  of  the   human    counte 
nance, 
Its  play  of  smiles,  the  magic  of  a  glance, 


152 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Forevermore  repeat, 
In  varied  tones  and  sweet, 
That  beauty,  in  and  of  itself,  is  good. 

0  kind  and  generous  friend,  o'er  whom 
The  sunset  hues  of  Time  are  cast, 
Painting,  upon  the  overpast 
And   scattered   clouds   of  noonday 

sorrow 

The  promise  of  a  fairer  morrow, 
An  earnest  of  the  better  life  to  come  ; 
The  binding  of  the  spirit  broken, 
The  warning  to  the  erring  spoken, 

The  comfort  of  the  sad, 
The  eye  to  see,  the  hand  to  cull 
Of  common  things  the  beautiful, 

The  absent  heart  made  glad 
By  simple  gift  or  graceful  token 
Of  love  it  needs  as  daily  food, 
All  own  one  Source,  and  all  are  good  ! 
Hence,    tracking   sunny    cove   and 

reach, 
Where  spent  waves  glimmer  up  the 

beach, 

And  toss  their  gifts  cf  weed  and  shell 
From  foamy  curve  and  combing  swell, 
No  unbefitting  task  was  thine 

To  weave  these  flowers  so  soft  and 

fair 
In  unison  with  His  design 

Who  loveth  beauty  everywhere  ; 
And  makes  in  every  zone  and  clime, 

In  ocean  and  in  upper  air, 
"  All  things  beautiful  in  their  time. " 

For  not  alone  in  tones  of  awe  and 

power 

He  speaks  to  man  ; 
The  cloudy  horror  of  the  thunder- 
shower 
His  rainbows  span  ; 


And  where  the  caravan 
Winds  o'er   the    desert,  leaving,  as   in 

air 

The  crane-flock  leaves,  no  trace  of  pas 
sage  there, 

He  gives  the  weary  eye 
The  palm-leaf  shadow  for  the  hot  noon 

hours, 

And  on  its  branches  dry 
Calls  out  the  acacia's  flowers  ; 
And  where  the  dark  shaft  pierces 

dowTn 

Beneath  the  mountain  roots, 
Seen  by  the  miner's  lamp  alone, 
The  star-like  crystal  shoots  ; 
So,    where,    the   winds   and   waves 

below, 

The  coral-branched  gardens  grow, 
His    climbing    weeds   and    mosses 

show, 

Like  foliage,  on  each  stony  bough, 
Of  varied  hues  more  strangely  gay 
Than  forest  leaves  in  autumn's 

day;- 

Thus  evermore, 
On  sky,  and  wave,  and  shore, 
An  all-pervading  beauty   seems  to 

say  : 
God's  love  and  power  are  one  ;  and 

they, 
Who,  like  the  thunder  <af  a  sultry 

day, 

Smite  to  restore, 
And  they,  who,  like  the   gentle  wind, 

uplift 
The  petals  of  the  dew-wet  flowers,  and 

drift 

Their  perfume  on  the  air, 
Alike  may  serve  Him,  each,  with  their 

own  gift, 
Making  their  lives  a  praj  er  1 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


153 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS, 

AND  OTHER   POEMS. 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 

"  I  DO  believe,  and  yet,  in  grief, 
I  pray  for  help  to  unbelief ; 
For  needful  strength  aside  to  lay 
The  daily  cumberings  of  my  way. 

"  I  'in  sick  at  heart  of  craft  and  cant, 
Sick  of  the  crazed  enthusiast's  rant, 
Profession's  smooth  hypocrisies, 
And  creeds  of  iron,  and  lives  of  ease. 

"  I  ponder  o'er  the  sacred  word, 
I  read  tne  record  of  our  Lord  ; 
And,  weak  and  troubled,  envy  them 
Who   touched    his   seamless    garment's 
hem  ;  — 

"  Who  saw  the  tears  of  love  he  wept 
Above  the  grave  where  Lazarus  slept  ; 
And  heard,  amidst  the  shadows  dim 
Of  Olivet,  his  evening  hymn. 

"  How     blessed     the    swineherd's    low 

estate, 

The  beggar  crouching  at  the  gate, 
The  leper  loathly  and  abhorred, 
Whose  eyes  of  flesh  beheld  the  Lord  ! 

* '  0  sacred  soil  his  sandals  pressed  ! 
Sweet  fountains  of  his  noonday  rest ! 
0  light  and  air  of  Palestine, 
Impregnate  with  his  life  divine  ! 

"  0,  bear  me  thither  !     Let  me  look 
On  Siloa's  pool,  and  Kedron's  brook,  — 
Kneel  at  Gethsemane,  and  by 
Gennesaret  walk,  before  I  die  ! 

"  Methinks  this  cold  and  northern  night 
Would  melt  before  that  Orient  light  ; 
And,  wet  by  Hermon's  dew  and  rain, 
My  childhood's  faith  revive  again  !  " 

So  spake  my  friend,  one  autumn  day, 
Where  the  still  river  slid  away 
Beneath  us,  and  above  the  brown 
Red  curtains  of  the  woods  shut  down. 


Then  said  I,  —  for  I  could  not  brook 
The  mute  appealing  of  his  look,  — 
"  I,  too,  am  weak,  and  faitli  is  small, 
And  blindness  happeneth  unto  all. 

"  Yet,  sometimes  glimpses  on  my  sight, 
Through    present    wrong,    the    eternal 

right ; 

And,  step  by  step,  since  time  began, 
I  see  the  steady  gain  of  man  ; 

"  That  all  of  good  the  past  hath  had 
Remains  to  make  our  own  time  glad,  — • 
Our  common  daily  life  divine, 
And  every  land  a  Palestine. 

' '  Thou  weariest  of  thy  present  state  ; 
What  gain  to  thee  time's  holiest  date  ? 
The  doubter  now  perchance  had  been 
As  High  Priest  or  as  Pilate  then  ! 

"  What     thought     Chorazin's    scribes' 

What  faith 

In  Him  had  Nain  and  Nazareth  ? 
Of  the  few  followers  whom  He  led 
One  sold  him,  —  all  forsook  and  fled. 

"  0  friend  !  we  need  nor  rock  nor  sand, 
Nor  storied  stream  of  Morning- Land  ; 
The    heavens    are    glassed    in    Merr?- 

mack,  — 
What  more  could  Jordan  render  back  ? 

"We  lack  but  open  eye  and  ear 
To  find  the  Orient's  marvels  here  ;  — 
The  still  small  voice  in  autumn's  hush, 
Yon  maple  wood  the  burning  bush. 

"  For  still  the  new  transcends  the  old, 
In  signs  and  tokens  manifold  ;  — 
Slaves  rise  up  men  ;  the  olive  waves, 
With  roots  deep  set  in  battle  graves  ! 

"  Through  the  harsh  noises  of  our  day 
A  low,  sweet  prelude  finds  its  way  ; 
Through  clouds  of  doubt,  and  creeds  of 

fear, 
A  light  is  breaking,  calm  and  clear. 


154 


THE   CHAPEL    OF   THE   HERMITS. 


"  That  song  of  Love,  now  low  and  far, 
Erelong  shall  swell  from  star  to  star  ! 
That  light,  the  breaking  day,  which  tips 
The  golden-spired  Apocalypse  !  " 

Then,  wheii  my  good  friend  shook  his 

head, 

And,  sighing,  sadly  smiled,  I  said  : 
"  Thou  mind'st  me  of  a  story  told 
In  rare  Bernardin's  leaves  of  gold."  ^ 

And  while  the  slanted  sunbeams  wove 
The  shadows  of  the  frost-stained  grove, 
And,  picturing  all,  the  river  ran 
O'er  cloud  and  wood,  I  thus  began  : 


In  Mount  Valerien's  chestnut  wood 
The  Chapel  of  the  Hermits  stood  ; 
And  thither,  at  the  close  of  day, 
Came  two  old  pilgrims,  worn  and  gray. 

One,  whose  impetuous  youth  defied 
The  storms  of  Baikal's  wintry  side, 
And  mused  and  dreamed  where  tropic 

day 
Flamed  o'er  his  lost  Virginia's  bay. 

His  simple  tale  of  love  and  woe 
All  hearts  had  melted,  high  or  low  ;  — 
A  blissful  pain,  a  sweet  distress, 
Immortal  in  its  tenderness. 

Yet,  while  above  his  charmed  page 
Beat  quick  the  young  heart  of  his  age, 
He  walked  amidst  the  crowd  unknown, 
A  sorrowing  old  man,  strange  and  lone. 

A  homeless,  troubled  age,  —  the  gray 
Pale  setting  of  a  weary  day  ; 
Too  dull  his  ear  for  voice  of  praise, 
Too  sadly  worn  his  brow  for  bays. 

Pride,  lust  of  power  and  glory,  slept ; 
Yet  still  his  heart  its  young  dream  kept, 
And,  wandering  like  the  deluge-dove, 
Still  sought  the  resting-place  of  love. 

And,  mateless,  childless,  envied  more 
The  peasant's  welcome  from  his  door 
By  smiling  eyes  at  eventide, 
Than  kingly  gifts  or  lettered  pride. 

Until,  in  place  of  wife  and  child, 
AJl-pitying  Nature  on  him  smiled, 
And  gave  to  him  the  golden  keys 
To  all  her  inmost  sanctities. 


Mild  Druid  of  her  wood-paths  dim ! 
She  laid  her  great  heart  bare  to  him, 
(ts  loves  and  sweet  accords  ;  —  he  saw 
The  beauty  of  her  perfect  law. 

The  language  of  her  signs  he  knew, 
What  notes  her  cloudy  clarion  blew  ; 
The  rhythm  of  autumn's  forest  dyes, 
The  hymn  of  sunset's  painted  skies. 

And  thus  he  seemed  to  hear  the  song 
Which  swept,  of  old,  the  stars  along  ; 
And  to  his  eyes  the  earth  once  more 
Its  fresh  and  primal  beauty  wore. 

Who    sought  with   him,   from    summei 

air, 

And  field  and  wood,  a  balm  for  care  ; 
And  bathed  in  light  of  sunset  skies 
His  tortured  nerves  and  weary  eyes  ? 

His  fame  on  all  the  winds  had  flown  ; 
His  words  had  shaken  crypt  and  throne  ; 
Like  fire,  on  camp  and  court  and  cell 
They    dropped,    and    kindled    as    tney 
fell. 

Beneath  the  pomps  of  state,  below 
The  mitred  juggler's  masque  and  show, 
A  prophecy  —  a  vague  hope  —  ran 
His  burning  thought  from  man  to  man. 

For  peace  or  rest  too  well  he  saw 
The  fraud  of  priests,  the  wrong  of  law, 
And  felt  how  hard,  between  the  two, 
Their  breath  of  pain  the  millions  drew. 

A  prophet-utterance,  strong  and  wild, 
The  weakness  of  an  unwearied  child, 
A  sun-bright  hope  for  human-kind, 
And  self-despair,  in  him  combined. 

He    loathed    the    false,    yet   lived   not 

true 

To  half  the  glorious  truths  he  knew  ; 
The  doubt,  the  discord,  and  the  sin, 
He  mourned  without,  he  felt  within. 

Untrod  by  him  the  path  he  showed, 
Sweet  pictures  on  his  easel  glowed 
Of  simple  faith,  and  loves  of  home, 
And  virtue's  golden  days  to  come. 

But  weakness,  shame,  and  folly  made 
The  foil  to  all  his  pen  portrayed  ; 
Still,  where  his  dreamy  splendors  shono, 
The  shadow  of  himself  was  thrown. 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


Lord,  what  is  man,  whose  thought,  at 

times, 

Up  to  thy  sevenfold  brightness  climbs, 
While  still  his  grosser  instinct  clings 
To  earth,  like  other  creeping  things  ! 

So  rich  in  words,  in  acts  so  mean  ; 
So  high,  so  low  ;  chance-swung  between 
The  foulness  of  the  penal  pit 
And    Truth's    clear    sky,    millennium- 
lit ! 

Vain  pride  of  star-lent  genius  !  —  vain 
Quick  fancy  and  creative  brain, 
Unblest  by  prayerful  sacrifice, 
Absurdly  great,  or  weakly  wise  ! 

Midst  yearnings  for  a  truer  life, 
Without  were  fears,  within  was  strife  ; 
And  still  his  wayward  act  denied 
The  perfect  good  for  which  he  sighed. 

The  love  he  sent  forth  void  returned  ; 
The  fame   that   crowned   him  scorched 

and  burned, 

Burning,  yet  cold  and  drear  and  lone,  — 
A  fire-mount  in  a  frozen  zone  ! 

Like     that    the     gray-haired    sea-king 

passed,64 

Seen  southward  from  his  sleety  mast, 
About  whose  brows  of  changeless  frost 
A  wreath  of  flame  the  wild  winds  tossed. 

Far  round  the  mournful  beauty  played 
Of  lambent  light  and  purple  shade, 
Lost  on  the  fixed  and  dumb  despair 
Of  frozen  earth  and  sea  and  air  ! 

A  man  apart,  unknown,  unloved 

By   those   whose   wrongs   his   soul  had 

moved, 

He  bore  the  ban  of  Church  and  State, 
The  good  man's  fear,  the  bigot's  hate  ! 

Forth  from  the  city's  noise  and  throng, 
Its  pomp  and  shame,  its  sin  and  wrong, 
The  twain  that  summer  day  had  strayed 
To  Mount  Valerien's  chestnut  shade. 

To  them  the  green  fields  and  the  wood 
Lent  something  of  their  quietude, 
And  golden-tinted  sunset  seemed 
Prophetical  of  all  they  dreamed. 

The  hermits  from  their  simple  cares 
The  bell  was  calling  home  to  prayers, 


And,  listening  to  its  sound,  the  twain 
Seemed     lapped    in    childhood's    trust 
again. 

Wide  open  stood  the  chapel  door  ; 
A  sweet  old  music,  swelling  o'er 
Low  prayerful  murmurs,  issued  thence,  — 
The  Litanies  of  Providence  ! 

Then  Rousseau  spake  :    "Where  two  or 

three 

In  His  name  meet,  He  there  will  be  !  " 
And  then,  in  silence,  on  their  knees 
They  sank  beneath  the  chestnut-trees. 

As  to  the  blind  returning  light, 
As  daybreak  to  the  Arctic  night, 
Old  faith  revived  :  the  doubts  of  years 
Dissolved  in  reverential  tears. 

That  gush  of  feeling  overpast, 
"  Ah  me  !  "  Bernardin  sighed  at  last, 
"  I  would  thy  bitterest  foes  could  see 
Thy  heart  as  it  is  seen  of  me  ! 

"  No  church  of  God  hast  thou  denied  ; 
Thou  hast  but  spurned  in  scorn  aside 
A  base  and  hollow  counterfeit, 
Profaning  the  pure  name  of  it  ! 

"  With  dry  dead  moss  and  marish  weeds 
His  fire  the  western  herdsman  feeds, 
And  greener  from  the  ashen  plain 
The  sweet  spring  grasses  rise  again. 

"  Nor  thunder-peal  nor  mighty  wind 
Disturb  the  solid  sky  behind  ; 
And  through  the  cloud  the  red  bolt  rends 
The  calm,  still  smile  of  Heaven  descends  I 

"Thus  through  the  world,  like  bolt  and 

blast, 
And    scourging  fire,    thy    words    have 

passed. 
Clouds  break,  —  the   steadfast  heavens 

remain  ; 
Weeds  burn,  —  the  ashes  feed  the  grain  ! 

' '  But  whoso  strives  with  wrong  may  find 
Its  touch  pollute,  its  darkness  blind  ; 
And  learn,  as  latent  fraud  is  shown 
In  others'  faith,  to  doubt  his  own. 

"  With  dream  and  falsehood,  simple  trust 
And  pious  hope  we  tread  in  dust ; 
Lost  the  calm  faith  in  goodness,  —  lost 
The  baptism  of  the  Pentecost  ! 


156 


THE   CHAPEL   OF   THE    HERMITS. 


"  Alas  !  —  the  blows  for  error  meant 
Too  oft  on  truth  itself  are  spent, 
As  through  the  false  and  vile  and  base 
Looks  forth  her  sad,  rebuking  face. 

"  Not  ours  the  Theban's  charmed  life  ; 
We  come  not  scathless  from  the  strife  ! 
The  Python's  coil  about  us  clings, 
The  trampled  Hydra  bites  and  stings  ! 

"  Meanwhile,    the     sport     of    seeming 

chance, 

The  plastic  shapes  of  circumstance, 
What  might  have  been  we  fondly  guess, 
If  earlier  born,  or  tempted  less. 

"And   thou,    in    these    wild,    troubled 

days, 

Misjudged  alike  in  blame  and  praise, 
Unsought  and  undeserved  the  same 
The  sceptic's  praise,  the  bigot's  blame  ;  — 

"  I  cannot  doubt,  if  thou  hadst  been 
Among  the  highly  favored  men 
Who  walked  on  earth  with  Fenelon, 
He  would  have  owned  thee  as  his  son  ; 

"And,  bright  with  wings  of  cherubim 

Visibly  waving  over  him, 

Seen  through  his  life,  the  Church  had 

seemed 
All  that  its  old  confessors  dreamed. 

"  I  would  have  been,"  Jean  Jaques  re 
plied, 

"  The  humblest  servant  at  his  side, 
Obscure,  unknown,  content  to  see 
How  beautiful  man's  life  may  be  ! 

"  0,  more  than  thrice-blest  relic,  more 
Than  solemn  rite  or  sacred  lore, 
The  holy  life  of  one  who  trod 
The  foot-marks  of  the  Christ  of  God  ! 

"  Amidst  a  blinded  world  he  saw 

The  oneness  of  the  Dual  law  ; 

That   Heaven's   sweet   peace   on   Earth 

began, 
And   God  was   loved   through   love   of 

man. 

"He  lived  the  Truth  which  reconciled 
The  strong  man  Reason,  Faith  the  child  : 
In  him  belief  and  act  were  one, 
The  homilies  of  duty  done  !  " 

So  speaking,  through  the  twilight  gray 
The  two  old  pilgrims  went  their  way. 


What  seeds  of  life  that  day  were  sown, 
The  heavenly  watchers  knew  alone. 

Time  passed,  and  Autumn  came  to  fold 
Green  Summer  in  her  brown  and  gold ; 
Time  passed,  and  Winter's  tears  of  snow 
Dropped  on  the  grave-mound  of  Kous- 
seau. 

"The  tree  remaineth  where  it  fell, 
The  pained  on  earth  is  pained  in  hell  ! " 
So  priestcraft  from  its  altars  cursed 
The     mournful     doubts     its     falsehood 
nursed. 

Ah  !  well  of  old  the  Psalmist  prayed, 
"  Thy  hand,  not  man's,  on  me  be  laid  !  " 
Earth  frowns  below,  Heaven  weeps  above, 
And  man  is  hate,  but  God  is  love  ! 

No  Hermits  now  the  wanderer  sees, 
Nor  chapel  with  its  chestnut-trees  ; 
A  morning  dream,  a  tale  that 's  told, 
The  wave  of  change  o'er  all  has  rolled. 

Yet  lives  the  lesson  of  that  day  ; 
And  from  its  twilight  cool  and  gray 
Comes  up  a  low,  sad  whisper,  ' '  Make 
The   truth  thine  own,  for  truth's  own 
sake. 

"Why  wait  to  see  in  thy  brief  span 
Its  perfect  flower  and  fruit  in  man  ? 
No  saintly  touch  can  save  ;  no  balm 
Of  healing  hath  the  martyr's  palm. 

"Midst  soulless   forms,  and   false   pre 
tence 

Of  spiritual  pride  and  pampered  sense, 
A  voice  saith,  '  What  is  that  to  thee  ? 
Be  true  thyself,  and  follow  Me  ! ' 

"In  days  when  throne  and  altar  heard 
The  wanton's  wish,  the  bigot's  word, 
And  pomp  of  state  and  ritual  show 
Scarce    hid    the    loathsome    death   be 
low,  — 

"Midst   fawning  priests   and   courtiers 

foul, 

The  losel  swarm  of  crown  and  cowl, 
White-robed  walked  Francois  Fenelon, 
Stainless  as  Uriel  in  the  sun  ! 

"  Yet  in  his  time  the  stake  blazed  red, 
The  poor  were  eaten  up  like  bread  : 
Men  knew  him  not:  his  garment's  hem 
No  healing  virtue  had  for  them. 


QUESTIONS   OF    LIFE. 


157 


"  Alas  !  no  present  saint  we  find  ; 
The  white  cymar  gleams  far  behind, 
Bevealed  in  outline  vague,  sublime, 
Through  telescopic  mists  of  time '. 

"  Trust  not  in  man  with  passing  breath, 
But  in  the  Lord,  old  Scripture  saith  ; 
The  truth  which  saves  thou  mayst  not 

blend 
With  false  professor,  faithless  friend. 

"Search  thine  own  heart.     What  pain- 

eth  thee 

In  others  in  thyself  may  be  ; 
All  dust  is  frail,  all  flesh  is  weak  ; 
Be  thou  the  true  man  thou  dost  seek  ! 

* '  Where  now  with  pain  thou  treadest,  trod 
The  whitest  of  the  saints  of  God  ! 
To  show  thee  where  their  feet  were  set, 
The  light  which  led  them  shineth  yet. 

"  The  footprints  of  the  life  divine, 
Which   marked  their  path,    remain   in 

thine  ; 

And  that  great  Life,  transfused  in  theirs, 
Awaits  thy  faith,  thy  love,  thy  prayers ! " 

A  lesson  which  I  well  may  heed, 
A  word  of  fitness  to  my  need  ; 
So  from  that  twilight  cool  and  gray 
Still  saith  a  voice,  or  seems  to  say. 


We  rose,  and  slowly  homeward  turned, 
While  down  the  west  the  sunset  burned ; 
And,  in  its  light,  hill,  wood,  and  tide, 
And  human  forms  seemed  glorified. 

The  village  homes  transfigured  stood, 
And  purple  bluffs,  whose  belting  wood 
Across  the  waters  leaned  to  hold 
The  yellow  leaves  like  lamps  of  gold. 

Then  spake  my  friend  :  "Thy  words  ar» 

true  ; 

Forever  old,  forever  new, 
These  home-seen  splendors  are  the  same 
Which  over  Eden's  sunsets  came. 

' '  To  these  bowed  heavens  let  wood  and 

hill 

Lift  voiceless  praise  and  anthem  still ; 
Fall,  warm  with  blessing,  over  them, 
Light  of  the  New  Jerusalem  ! 

''Flow  on,  sweet  river,  like  the  stream 
Of  John's  Apocalyptic  dream  ! 
This  mapled  ridge  shall  Horeb  be, 
Yon  green-banked  lake  our  Galilee  ! 

' '  Henceforth  my  heart  shall   sigh  no 

more 

For  olden  time  and  holier  shore  ; 
God's  love  and  blessing,  then  and  there, 
Are  now  and  here  and  everywhere." 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


QUESTIONS  OF  LIFE. 

And  the  angel  that  was  sent  unto  me,  whose 
name  was  Uriel,  gave  me  an  answer  and  said, 

"  Thy  heart  hath  gone  too  far  in  this  world, 
and  thinkest  thou  to  comprehend  the  way  of  the 
Most  High?" 

Then  said  I,  "  Yea,  my  Lord." 

Then  said  he  unto  me,  "  Go  thy  way ,  weigh  me 
tfie  weight  of  the  fire  or  measure  me  the  blast 
of  the  wind,  or  call  me  again  the  day  that  is 
past."  —  2  Esdras,  chap.  iv. 

A  BENDING  staff  I  would  not  break, 
A  feeble  faith  I  would  not  shake, 
Nor  even  rashly  pluck  away 
The  error  which  some  truth  may  stay, 
Whose  loss  might  leave  the  soul  without 
A  shield  against  the  shafts  of  doubt. 


And  yet,  at  times,  when  over  all 
A  darker  mystery  seems  to  fall, 
(May  God  forgive  the  child  of  dust, 
Who  seeks  to  know,  where  Faith  shoiuvl 

trust ! ) 

I  raise  the  questions,  old  and  dark, 
Of  Uzdom's  tempted  patriarch, 
And,  speech-confounded,  build  again 
The  baffled  tower  of  Shinar's  plain. 

I  am  :  how  little  more  I  know  ! 
Whence  came  I  ?     Whither  do  I  go  ? 
A  centred  self,  which  feels  and  is  ; 
A  cry  between  the  silences  ; 
A  shadow-birth  of  clouds  at  strife 
With  sunshine  on  the  hills  of  life  ; 


158 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


A  shaft  from  Nature's  quiver  cast 
Into  the  Future  from  the  Past  ; 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  shroud, 
A  meteor's  flight  from  cloud  to  cloud. 

Thorough  the  vastness,  arching  all, 

I  see  the  great  stars  rise  and  fall, 

The  rounding  seasons  come  and  go, 

The  tided  oceans  ebb  and  flow  ; 

The  tokens  of  a  central  force, 

Whose  circles,  in  their  widening  course, 

O'erlap  and  move  the  universe  ; 

The  workings  of  the  law  whence  springs 

The  rhythmic  harmony  of  things, 

Which   shapes   in    earth   the    darkling 

spar, 

And  orbs  in  heaven  the  morning  star. 
Of  all  I  see,  in  earth  and  sky,  — 
Star,    flower,    beast,    bird,  —  what   part 

have  I  ? 

This  conscious  life,  —  is  it  the  same 
Which  thrills  the  universal  frame, 
Whereby  the  caverned  crystal  shoots, 
And  mounts  the  sap  from  forest  roots, 
Whereby  the  exiled  wood-bird  tells 
When    Spring  makes  green   her  native 

dells  ? 

How  feels  the  stone  the  pang  of  birth, 
Which  brings  its  sparkling  prism  forth  ? 
The  forest-tree  the  throb  which  gives 
The  life-blood  to  its  new-born  leaves  ? 
Do  bird  and  blossom  feel,  like  me, 
Life's  many-folded  mystery,  — 
The  wonder  which  it  is  TO  BE  ? 
Or  stand  I  severed  and  distinct, 
From  Nature's  chain  of  life  unlinked  ? 
Allied  to  all,  yet  not  the  less 
Prisoned  in  separate  consciousness, 
Alone  o'erburdened  with  a  sense 
Of  life,  and  cause,  and  consequence  ? 

In  vain  to  me  the  Sphinx  propounds 
The  riddle  of  her  sights  and  sounds  ; 
Back  still  the  vaulted  mystery  gives 
The  echoed  question  it  receives. 
What  sings  the  brook  ?     What  oracle 
Is  in  the  pine-tree's  organ  swell  ? 
What    may    the    wind's    low    burden 

be? 

The  meaning  of  the  moaning  sea  ? 
The  hieroglyphics  of  the  stars  ? 
Or  clouded  sunset's  crimson  bars  ? 
I  vainly  ask,  for  mocks  my  skill 
The  trick  of  Nature's  cipher  still 

I  turn  from  Nature  unto  men, 
I  ask  the  stylus  and  the  pen  ; 


What   sang   the   bards  of  old?     Wh*t 

meant 

The  prophets  of  the  Orient  ? 
The  rolls  of  buried  Egypt,  hid 
In  painted  tomb  and  pyramid  ? 
What  mean  Idumea's  arrowy  lines, 
Or  dusk  Flora's  monstrous  signs  ? 
How  speaks  the  primal  thought  of  ma^. 
From  the  grim  carvings  of  Copan  ? 
Where  rests  the  secret  ?   Where  the  key* 
Of  the  old  death-bolted  mysteries  ? 
Alas  !  the  dead  retain  their  trust  ; 
Dust  hath  no  answer  from  the  dust. 

The  great  enigma  still  unguessed, 

Unanswered  the  eternal  quest  ; 

I  gather  up  the  scattered  rays 

Of  wisdom  in  the  early  days, 

Faint  gleams  and  broken,  like  the  lig^-t 

Of  meteors  in  a  northern  night, 

Betraying  to  the  darkling  earth 

The  unseen  sun  which  gave  them  birt'  ; 

I  listen  to  the  sibyl's  chant, 

The  voice  of  priest  and  hierophant ; 

I  know  what  Indian  Kreeslma  saith, 

And  what  of  life  and  what  of  death 

The  demon  taught  to  Socrates ; 

And  what,  beneath  his  garden -trees 

Slow  pacing,  with  a  dream-like  tread; 

The  solenm-thoughted  Plato  said  ; 

Nor  lack  I  tokens,  great  or  small, 

Of  God's  clear  light  in  each  and  all, 

While  holding  with,  more  dear  regard 

The  scroll  of  Hebrew  seer  and  bard, 

The  starry  pages  promise-lit 

With  Christ's  Evangel  over-writ, 

Thy  miracle  of  life  and  death, 

0  holy  one  of  Nazareth  ! 

On  Aztec  ruins,  gray  and  lone, 
The  circling  serpent  coils  in  stone,  — 
Type  of  the  endless  and  unknown  ; 
Whereof  we  seek  the  clew  to  find, 
With  groping  fingers  of  the  blind  ! 
Forever  sought,  and  never  found, 
We  trace  that  serpent-symbol  round 
Our  resting-place,  our  starting  bound  ! 
O  thriftlessness  of  dream  and  guess  ! 
0  wisdom  which  is  foolishness  ! 
Why  idly  seek  from  outward  things 
The  answer  inward  silence  brings  ; 
Why  stretch  beyond  our  proper  sphere 
And  age,  for  that  which  lies  so  near  ? 
Why  climb  the  far-off  hills  with  pain, 
A  nearer  view  of  heaven  to  gain  ? 
In  lowliest  depths  of  bosky  dells 
The  hermit  Contemplation  dwells. 


THE    PKISONERS    OF   NAPLES. 


159 


A  fountain's  pine-hung  slope  his  seat, 
And  lotus-tAvined  his  silent  feet, 
Whence,  piercing  heaven,  with  screened 

sight, 

He  sees  at  noon  the  stars,  whose  light 
Shall  glorify  the  coming  night. 

Here  let  me  pause,  my  quest  forego  ; 
Enough  for  me  to  feel  and  know 
That  He  in  whom  the  cause  and  end, 
The  past  and  future,  meet  and  blend,  — 
Who,  girt  with  his  immensities, 
Our  vast  and  star-hung  system  sees, 
Small  as  the  clustered  Pleiades,  — 
Moves  not  alone  the  heavenly  quires, 
But    waves     the    spring-time's     grassy 

spires, 

Guards  not  archangel  feet  alone, 
But  deigns  to  guide  and  keep  my  own  ; 
Speaks  riot  alone  the  words  of  fate 
Which     worlds    destroy,     and     worlds 

create, 

But  whispers  in  my  spirit's  ear, 
In  tones  of  love,  or  warning  fear, 
A  language  none  beside  may  hear. 

To   Him,    from   wanderings    long    and 

wild, 

I  come,  an  over-wearied  child, 
In  cool  and  shade  his  peace  to  find, 
Like  dew-fall  settling  on  my  mind. 
Assured  that  all  I  know  is  best, 
And  humbly  trusting  for  the  rest, 
I  turn  from  Fancy's  cloud-built  scheme, 
Dark  creed,  and  mournful  eastern  dream 
Of  power,  impersonal  and  cold, 
Controlling  all,  itself  controlled, 
Maker  and  slave  of  iron  laws, 
Alike  the  subject  and  the  cause  ; 
From  vain  philosophies,  that  try 
The  sevenfold  gates  of  mystery, 
And,  baffled  ever,  babble  still, 
AVord-prodigal  of  fate  and  will ; 
From  Nature,  and  her  mockery,  Art, 
And  book  and  speech  of  men  apart, 
To  the  still  witness  in  my  heart ; 
With  reverence  waiting  to  behold 
His  Avatar  of  love  untold, 
The  Eternal  Beauty  new  and  old  ! 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  NAPLES. 

I    HAVE   been  thinking  of  the   victims 

bound 
In  Naples,  dying  for  the  lack  of  air 


And    sunshine,   in    their    close,    damp 

cells  of  pain, 
Where   hope  is  not,  and   innocence   in 

vain 
Appeals  against  the  torture    and    the 

chain  ! 
Unfortunates  !   whose  crime   it  was  to 

share 
Our  common  love   of  freedom,  and  to 

dare, 

In  its    behalf,    Rome's    harlot    triple- 
crowned, 
And  her  base  pander,  the  most  hateful 

thing 
Who     upon     Christian     or    on    Pagan 

ground 

Makes  vile  the  old  heroic  name  of  king. 
0  God  most  merciful !     Father  just  and 

kind! 
Whom  man   hath  bound  let  thy  right 

hand  unbind. 

Or,  if  thy  purposes  of  good  behind 
Their  ills   lie   hidden,  let   the  sufferers 

find 
Strong  consolations  ;  leave  them  not  to 

doubt 

Thy  providential  care,  nor  yet  without 
The    hope  which  all  thy  attributes  in 
spire, 
That  not  in  vain  the  martyr's  robe  of 

fire 
Is  worn,  nor  the  sad  prisoner's  fretting 

chain ; 
Since  all  who  suffer  for  thy  truth  send 

forth, 

Electrical,  with  every  throb  of  pain, 
Unquenchable    sparks,    thy   own    bap 
tismal  rain 

Of  fire  and  spirit  over  all  the  earth, 
Making  the  dead  in  slavery  live  again. 
Let  this  great  hope  be  with  them,   as 

they  lie 
Shut  from  the  light,  the  greenness,  and 

the  sky,  — 
From  the  cool  waters  and  the  pleasant 

breeze, 

The  smell  of  flowers,  and  shade  of  sum 
mer  trees  ; 
Bound  with    the    felon   lepers,    whom 

disease 
And   sins   abhorred    make    loathsome ; 

let  them  share 

Pellico's  faith,  Foresti's  strength  to  bear 
Years  of  unutterable  torment,  stern  and 

still, 
As  the  chained  Titan  victor  through  hi* 

will! 


160 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Comfort  them  with  thy  future  ;  let  them 

see 

The  day- dawn  of  Italian  liberty  ; 
For  that,  with  all  good  things,  is  hid 

with  Thee, 
And,  perfect  in  thy  thought,  awaits  its 

time  to  be  ! 

I,  who  have  spoken  for  freedom  at  the  cost 

Of  some  weak  friendships,  or  some  pal 
try  prize 

Of  name  or  place,  and  more  than  I  have 
lost 

Have  gained  in  wider  reach  of  sym 
pathies, 

And  free  communion  with  the  good  and 
wise,  — 

May  God  forbid  that  I  should  ever 
boast 

Such  easy  self-denial,  or  repine 

That  the  strong  pulse  of  health  no  more 
is  mine  ; 

That,  overworn  at  noonday,  I  must 
yield 

To  other  hands  the  gleaning  of  the 
field,  — 

A  tired  on-looker  through  the  day's 
decline. 

For  blest  beyond  deserving  still,  and 
knowing 

That  kindly  Providence  its  care  is 
showing 

In  the  withdrawal  as  in  the  bestowing, 

Scarcely  I  dare  for  more  or  less  to  pray. 

Beautiful  yet  for  me  this  autumn  day 

Melts  on  its  sunset  hills  ;  and,  far  away, 

For  me  the  Ocean  lifts  its  solemn  psalm, 

To  me  the  pine-woods  whisper  ;  and 
for  me 

Yon  river,  winding  through  its  vales  of 
calm, 

By  greenest  banks,  with  asters  purple- 
starred, 

And  gentian  bloom  and  golden -rod 
made  gay, 

Flows  down  in  sileni  gladness  to  the  sea, 

Like  a  pure  spirit  to  its  great  reward  ! 

Nor  lack  I  friends,  long-tried  and  near 
and  dear, 

Whose  love  is  round  me  like  this  atmos 
phere, 

Warm,  soft,  and  golden.  For  such  gifts 
to  me 

What  shall  I  render,  0  my  God,  to  thee  ? 

Let  me  not  dwell  upon  my  lighter  share 

Of  pain  and  ill  that  human  life  must  bear ; 


Save  me  from  selfish  pining ;  let  my  heart, 
Drawn  from  itself  in  sympathy,  forget 
The  bitter  longings  of  a  vain  regret, 
The  anguish  of  its  own  peculiar  smart. 
Remembering  others,  as  I  have  to-day, 
In  their  great  sorrows,  let  me  live  alwaj 
Not  for  myself  alone,  but  have  a  part, 
Such  as  a  frail  and  erring  spirit  may, 
In  love  which  is  of  Thee,  and  which  in 
deed  Thou  art  1 


MOLOCH   IN   STATE  STREET. 

THE  moon  has  set :  while  yet  the  dawn 

Breaks  cold  and  gray, 
Between  the  midnight  and  the  morn 

Bear  off  your  prey  ! 

On,  swift  and  still !  —  the  conscious  street 

Is  panged  and  stirred  ; 
Tread  light !  —  that  fall  of  serried  feet 

The  dead  have  heard  ! 

The  first  drawn  blood  of  Freedom's  veins 

Gushed  where  ye  tread  ; 
Lo  !  through  the  dusk  the  martyr-stains 

Blush  darkly  red  ! 

Beneath  the  slowly  waning  stars 

And  whitening  day, 
What  stern  and  awful  presence  bars 

That  sacred  way  ? 

What  faces  frown  upon  ye,  dark 

With  shame  and  pain  ? 
Come   these    from    Plymouth's  Pilgrim 
bark? 

Is  that  young  Vane  ? 

Who,  dimly  beckoning,  speed  ye  on 

With  mocking  cheer  ? 
Lo  !  spectral  Andros,  Hutchinson, 

And  Gage  are  here  ! 

For  ready  mart  or  favoring  blast 

Through  Moloch's  fire 
Flesh  of  his  flesh,  unsparing,  passed 

The  Tyrian  sire. 

Ye  make  that  ancient  sacrifice 

Of  Man  to  Gain, 
Your  traffic  thrives,  where  Freedom  dies, 

Beneath  the  chain. 

Ye  sow  to-day,  your  harvest,  scorn 
And  hate,  is  near  ; 


THE   PEACE    OF    EUROPE. 


161 


How  think  ye  freemen,  mountain-born, 
The  tale  will  hear  ? 

Thank  God  !  our  mother  State  can  yet 

Her  fame  retrieve  ; 
To  you  and  to  your  children  let 

The  scandal  cleave. 

Chain  Hall  and  Pulpit,  Court  and  Press, 

Make  gods  of  gold  ; 
Let  honor,  truth,  and  manliness 

Like  wares  be  sold. 

Your  hoards  are  great,  your  walls  are 
strong, 

But  God  is  just ; 
The  gilded  chambers  built  by  wrong 

Invite  the  rust. 

What !  know  ye  not  the  gains  of  Crime 

Are  dust  and  dross  ; 
Its  ventures  on  the  waves  of  time 

Foredoomed  to  loss  ! 

And  still  the  Pilgrim  State  remains 

What  she  hath  been  ; 
Her  inland  hills,  her  seaward  plains, 

Still  nurture  men  ! 

Nor  wholly  lost  the  fallen  mart,  — 

Her  olden  blood 
Through  many  a  free  and  generous  heart 

Still  pours  its  flood. 

That  brave  old  blood,  quick-flowing  yet, 

Shall  know  no  check, 
Till  a  free  people's  foot  is  set 

On  Slavery's  neck. 

Even  now,  the  peal  of  bell  and  gun, 

And  hills  aflame, 
Tell  of  the  first  great  triumph  won 

In  Freedom's  name.65 

Tue  long  night  dies  :  the  welcome  gray 

Of  dawn  we  see  ; 
Speed  up  the  heavens  thy  perfect  day, 

God  of  the  free  ! 
1851. 


THE  PEACE  OF   EUROPE. 
1852. 

-"  GREAT  peace  in  Europe  !  Order  reigns 
From  Tiber-' s  hills  to  Danube's  plains  !" 
So  say  her  kings  and  priests  ;  so  say 
The  lying  prophets  of  our  day. 
11 


Go  lay  to  earth  a  listening  ear ; 
The  tramp  of  measured  marches  hear,  — 
The  rolling  of  the  cannon's  wheel, 
The  shotted  musket's  murderous  peal, 
The  night  alarm,  the  sentry's  call, 
The     quick-eared     spy     in     hut     and 

hall ! 

From  Polar  sea  and  tropic  fen 
The  dying-groans  of  exiled  men  ! 
The  bolted  cell,  the  galley's  chains, 
The  scaffold  smoking  with  its  stains  ! 
Order,  —  the  hush  of  brooding  slaves  ! 
Peace,  —  in    the    dungeon  -  vaults  and 

graves  ! 

0  Fisher  !  of  the  world-wide  net, 

With  meshes  in  all  waters  set, 

Whose  fabled  keys  of  heaven  and 
hell 

Bolt  hard  the  patriot's  prison-cell, 

And  open  wide  the  banquet-hall, 

Where  kings  and  priests  hold  carni 
val  ! 

Weak  vassal  tricked  in  royal  guise, 

Boy  Kaiser  with  thy  lip  of  lies  ; 

Base  gambler  for  Napoleon's  crown, 

Barnacle  on  his  dead  renown  ! 

Thou,  Bourbon  Neapolitan, 

Crowned  scandal,  loathed  of  God  and 
man ; 

And  thou,  fell  Spider  of  the  North  ! 

Stretching  thy  giant  feelers  forth, 

Within  whose  web  the  freedom  dies 

Of  nations  eaten  up  like  flies  ! 

Speak,  Prince  and  Kaiser,  Priest  ani 
Czar ! 

If  this  be  Peace,  pray  what  is  War  ? 

White  Angel  of  the  Lord  !  unmeet 

That  soil  accursed  for  thy  pure  feet. 

Never  in  Slavery's  desert  flows 

The  fountain  of  thy  charmed  repose  ; 

No  tyrant's  hand  thy  chaplet  weaves 

Of  lilies  and  of  olive-leaves  ; 

Not  with  the  wicked  shalt  thou  dwell,    / 

Thus  saith  the  Eternal  Oracle  ; 

Thy  home  is  with  the  pure  and  free  ! 

Stern  herald  of  thy  better  day, 

Before  thee,  to  prepare  thy  way, 

The  Baptist  Shade  of  Liberty, 

Gray,    scarred    and    hairy-robed,    must 

press 

With  bleeding  feet  the  wilderness  ! 
0  that  its  voice  might  pierce  the  ear 
Of  princes,  trembling  while  they  hear 
A  cry  as  of  the  Hebrew  seer  : 
Repent  !  God's  kingdom  draweth  near  ! 


162 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


WORDSWORTH. 

WRITTEN  ON  A  BLANK   LEAF  OF  HIS 
MEMOIRS. 

DEAR  friends,  who  read  the  world  aright, 
And  in  its  common  forms  discern 

A  beauty  and  a  harmony 
The  many  never  learn  ! 

Kindred  in  soul  of  him  who  found 
In  simple  flower  and  leaf  and  stone 

The  impulse  of  the  sweetest  lays 
Our  Saxon  tongue  has  known,  — 

Accept  this  record  of  a  life 

As  sweet  and  pure,  as  calm  and  good, 
As  a  long  day  of  blandest  June 

In  green  field  and  in  wood. 

How  welcome  to  our  ears,  long  pained 
By  strife  of  sect  and  party  noise, 

The  brook -like  murmur  of  his  song 
Of  nature's  simple  joys  ! 

The  violet  by  its  mossy  stone, 
The  primrose  by  the  river's  brim, 

And  chance-sown  daffodil,  have  found 
Immortal  life  through  him. 

The  sunrise  on  his  breezy  lake, 
The  rosy  tints  his  sunset  brought, . 

World-seen,  are  gladdening  all  the  vales 
And  mountain -peaks  of  thought. 

Art  builds  on  sand  ;  the  works  of  pride 
And  human  passion  change  and  fall ; 

But  that  which  shares  the  life  of  God 
With  him  surviveth  all. 


TO 


LINES    WRITTEN    AFTER    A    SUMMER 
DAY'S    EXCURSION. 

FAIR  Nature's  priestesses  !  to  whom, 
In  hieroglyph  of  bud  and  bloom, 

Her^  mysteries  are  told  ; 
Who,  wise  in  lore  of  wood  and  rnead, 
The  seasons'  pictured  scrolls  can  read, 

In  lessons  manifold  ! 

Thanks  for  the  courtesy,  and  gay 
Good-humor,  Avhich  on  Washing  Day 

Our  ill-timed  visit  bore  ; 
Thanks  for  your  graceful  oars,  which  broke 
The  morning  dreams  of  Artichoke, 

Along -his  wooded  shore  ! 


Varied  as  varying  Nature's  ways, 
Sprites  of  the  river,  woodland  lays, 

Or  mountain  nymphs,  ye  seem  ; 
Free-limbed  Dianas  on  the  green, 
Loch  Katrine's  Ellen,  or  Undine, 

Upon  your  favorite  stream. 

The  forms  of  which  the  poets  told, 
The  fair  benignities  of  old, 

Were  doubtless  such  as  you  ; 
What  more  than  Artichoke  the  rill 
Of  Helicon  ?     Than  Pipe-stave  hill 

Arcadia's  mountain-view  ? 

No  sweeter  bowers  the  bee  delayed, 
In  wild  Hymettus'  scented  shade, 

Than  those  you  dwell  among  ; 
Snow-flowered  azalias,  intertwined 
With  roses,  over  banks  inclined 

With  trembling  harebells  hung  ! 

A  charmed  life  unknown  to  death, 
Immortal  freshness  Nature  hath  ; 

Her  fabled  fount  and  glen 
Are  now  and  here  :  Dodona's  shrine 
Still  murmurs  in  the  wind-swept  pine,  — • 

All  is  that  e'er  hath  been. 

The  Beauty  which  old  Greece  or  Rome 
Sung,    painted,   wrought,    lies  close   at 
home  ; 

We  need  but  eye  and  ear 
In  all  our  daily  walks  to  trace 
The  outlines  of  incarnate  grace, 

The  hymns  of  gods  to  hear  ! 


IN   PEACE. 

A  TRACK  of  moonlight  on  a  quiet  lake, 
Whose  small  waves  on  a  silver-sanded 

shore 
Whisper  of  peace,  and  with  the  low  winds 

make 

Such  harmonies  as  keep  the  woods  awake, 
And  listening  all  night  long  for  their  sweet 

sake  ; 

A  green-waved  slope  of  meadow,  hov 
ered  o'er 

By  angel-troops  of  lilies,  swaying  light 
On  viewless  stems,  with  folded  wings  of 

white  ; 
A  slumberous  stretch  of  mountain-land, 

far  seen 
Where  the  low  westering  day,  with  gold 

and  green, 
Purple  and  amber,  softly  blended,  fills 


WORDSWORTH'S    GRAVE.     Page  162. 


PICTURES. 


163 


The  wooded  vales,  and  melts  among  the 

hills  ; 

A  vine-fringed  river,  winding  to  its  rest 
On  the  calm  bosom  of  a  stormless  sea, 
Bearing  alike  upon  its  placid  breast, 
With  earthly  flowers  and  heavenly  stars 

impressed, 

The  hues  of  time  and  of  eternity  : 
Such  are  the  pictures  which  the  thought 

of  thee, 
0   friend,   awakeneth,  —  charming   the 

keen  pain 

Of  thy  departure,  and  our  sense  of  loss 
Requiting  with  the  fulness  of  thy  gain. 
Lo  !  on  the  quiet  grave  thy  life-borne 

cross, 
Dropped  only  at  its  side,  methinks  doth 

shine, 

Of  thy  beatitude  the  radiant  sign  ! 
No  sob  of  grief,  no  wild  lament  be  there, 
To  break  the  Sabbath  of  the  holy  air  ; 
But,  in  their  stead,  the  silent-breathing 

prayer 

Of  hearts  still  waiting  fora  rest  like  thine. 
0  spirit  redeemed !    Forgive  us,  if  hence 
forth, 

With  sweet  and  pure  similitudes  of  earth, 
We  keep  thy  pleasant  memory  freshly 

green, 

Of  love's  inheritance  a  priceless  part, 
Which  Fancy's  self,  in  reverent  awe,  is 

seen 

To  paint,  forgetful  of  the  tricks  of  art, 
With  pencil  dipped  alone  in  colors  of 
the  heart. 


BENEDICITE. 

GOD'S  love  and  peace  be  with  thee,  where 
Soe'er  this  soft  autumnal  air 
Lifts  the  dark  tresses  of  thy  hair  ! 

Whether  through  city  casements  comes 
Its  kiss  to  thee,  in  crowded  rooms, 
Or,  out  among  the  woodland  blooms, 

It  freshens  o'er  thy  thoughtful  face, 
Imparting,  in  its  glad  embrace, 
Beauty  to  beauty,  grace  to  grace  ! 

Fair  Nature's  book  together  read, 

The  old  wood-paths  that  knew  our  tread, 

The  maple  shadows  overhead,  — 

The  hills  we  climbed,  the  river  seen 
By  gleams  along  its  deep  ravine,  — 
All  keep  thy  memory  fresh  and  green. 


Where'er  I  look,  where'er  I  stray, 
Thy  thought  goes  with  me  on  my  way, 
And  hence  the  prayer  I  breathe  to-day ; 

O'er  lapse  of  time  and  change  of  scene> 
The  weary  waste  which  lies  between 
Thyself  and  me,  my  heart  1  lean. 

Thou  lack'st  not  Friendship's  spell-word, 

nor 

The  half-unconscious  power  to  draw 
All  hearts  to  thine  by  Love's  sweet  law. 

With  these  good  gifts  of  God  is  cast 
Thy  lot,  and  many  a  charm  thou  hast 
To  hold  the  blessed  angels  fast. 

If,  then,  a  fervent  wish  for  thee 

The  gracious  heavens  will  heed  from  ma, 

What  should,  dear  heart,  its  burden  be  ? 

The  sighing  of  a  shaken  reed,  — 
What  can  I  more  than  meekly  plead 
The  greatness  of  our  common  need  ? 

God's    love,  —  unchanging,    pure,    and 

true,  — 

The  Paraclete  white-shining  through 
His  peace,  —  the  fall  of  Hermon's  dew  ! 

With  such  a  prayer,  on  this  sweet  day, 
As  thou  mayst  hear  and  I  may  say, 
I  greet  thee,  dearest,  far  away  ! 


PICTURE? 


LIGHT,  warmth,  and  sprouting  greenness, 
and  o'er  all 

Blue,  stainless,  steel-bright  ether,  rain 
ing  down 

Tranquillity   upon    the    deep-hushed 
town, 

The  freshening  meadows,  and  the  hill 
sides  brown  ; 
Voice  of  the  west- wind  from  the  hills 

of  pine, 

And  the  brimmed  river  from  its  distant 
fall, 

Low  hum  of  bees,  and  joyous  interlude 

Of  bird-songs  in  the  streamlet-skirting 
wood,  — 

Heralds  and  prophecies  of  sound  and 
sight, 

Blessed  forerunners  of  the  warmth  and 
light, 


164 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Attendant  angels  to  the  house  of  prayer, 
With  reverent  footsteps  keeping  pace 

with  mine,  — 
Once  more,  through  God's  great  love,  with 

you  I  share 

A  morn  of  resurrection  sweet  and  fair 
As  that  which  saw,  of  old,  in  Pales 
tine, 

Immortal  Love  uprising  in  fresh  bloom 
From  the  dark  night  and  winter  of 

the  tomb  ! 
5thmo.,2d,  1852. 


White  with  its  sun- bleached  dust,   the 

pathway  winds 
Before  me ;  dust  is  on  the  shrunken 

grass, 
And    on    the    trees    beneath    whose 

boughs  I  pass  ; 
Frail  screen  against  the  Hunter  of  the 

sky, 

Who,  glaring  on  mewithhislidlesseye, 
While  mounting  with  his  dog-star 

high  and  higher 

Ambushed  in  light  intolerable,  unbinds 
The  burnished  quiver  of  his  shafts 

of  lire. 
Between  me  and  the  hot  fields  of  his 

South 

A  tremulous  glow,  as  from  a  furnace- 
mouth, 

Glimmers  and  swims  before  my  daz 
zled  sight, 

As  if  the  burning  arrows  of  his  ire 
Broke  as  they  fell,  and  shattered  into 

light  ; 

Yet  on  my  cheek  I  feel  the  western  wind, 
And   hear   it  telling  to  the   orchard 

trees, 
And  to  the  faint  and  flower-forsaken 

bees, 

Tales  of  fair  meadows,  green  with  con 
stant  streams, 
And   mountains   rising  blue    and   cool 

behind, 

Where  in  moist  dells  the  purple  or 
chis  gleams, 
And    starred    with   white   the   virgin's 

bower  is  twined. 

So  the  o'erwearied  pilgrim,  as  he  fares 
Along  life's  summer  waste,  at  times  is 

fanned, 

Even  at  noontide,  by  the  cool,  sweet  airs 
Of  a  serener  and  a  holier  land, 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  as  the  dew- 
fall  bland. 


Breath  of  the  blessed  Heaven  for  which 

we  pray, 
Blow   from   the   eternal   hills  !  —  makfe 

glad  our  earthly  way  ! 
Stkmo.,  1862. 


DERNE.*5 

NIGHT  on  the  city  of  the  Moor  ! 

On  mosque  and  tomb,  and  white-walled 

shore, 

On  sea-waves,  to  whose  ceaseless  knock 
The  narrow  harbor-gates  unlock, 
On  corsair's  galley,  carack  tall, 
And  plundered  Christian  curaval  ! 
The  sounds  of  Moslem  life  are  still ; 
No  mule-bell  tinkles  down  the  hill  ; 
Stretched    in    the   broad   court  of  the 

khan, 

The  dusty  Bornou  caravan 
Lies  heaped  in  slumber,  beast  and  man  ; 
The  Sheik  is  dreaming  in  his  tent, 
His  noisy  Arab  tongue  o'erspent ; 
The  kiosk's  glimmering  lights  are  gone, 
The    merchant    with  his    wares   with 
drawn  ; 

Rough  pillowed  on  some  pirate  "breast, 
The  dancing-girl  has  sunk  to  rest ; 
And,    save    where    measured    footsteps 

fall 

Along  the  Bashaw's  guarded  wall, 
Or  where,   like   some   bad   dream,   the 

Jew 

Creeps  stealthily  his  quarter  through, 
Or  counts  with  fear  his  golden  heaps, 
The  City  of  the  Corsair  sleeps  ! 

But  where  yon  prison  long  and  low 
Stands  black  against  the  pale  star-glow, 
Chafed  by  the  ceaseless  wash  of  waves, 
There   watch   and    pine    the    Christian 

slaves  ;  — 

Rough-bearded  men,  whose  far-off  wives 
Wear  out  with  grief  their  lonely  lives  ; ./ 
And  youth,  still  flashing  from  his  eyes 
The  clear  blue  of  New  England  skies, 
A  treasured  lock  of  whose  soft  hair 
Now   wakes   some   sorrowing    mother's 

prayer  ; 

Or,  worn  upon  some  maiden  breast, 
Stirs  with  the  loving  heart's  unrest  ! 

A  bitter  cup  each  life  must  drain, 
The  groaning  earth  is  cursed  with  pain, 
And,  like  the  scroll  the  angel  bore 
The  shuddering  Hebrew  seer  before, 


ASTHMA. 


165 


O'ervvrit  alike,  without,  within, 
With  all  the  woes  which  follow  sin  ; 
But,  bitterest  of  the  ills  beneath 
Whose  load  man  totters  down  to  death, 
Is  that  which  plucks  the  regal  crown 
Of  Freedom  from  his  forehead  down, 
And  snatches  from  his  powerless  hand 
The  sceptred  sign  of  self-command, 
Effacing  with  the  chain  and  rod 
The  image  and  the  seal  of  God  ; 
Till  from  his  nature,  day  by  day, 
The  manly  virtues  fall  away, 
Arid  leave  him  naked,  blind  and  mute, 
The  godlike  merging  in  the  brute  ! 

Why  mourn  the  quiet  ones  who  die 
Beneath  affection's  tender  eye, 
Unto  their  household  and  their  kin 
Like  ripened  corn-sheaves  gathered  in  ? 
0  weeper,  from  that  tranquil  sod, 
That  holy  harvest-home  of  God, 
Turn  to  the  quick  and  suffering,  —  shed 
Thy  tears  upon  the  living  dead  ! 
Thank  God  above  thy  dear  ones'  graves, 
They  sleep  with  Him,  —  they  are  not 
slaves. 

What  dark  mass,  down  the  mountain 
sides 

Swift-pouring,  like  a  stream  divides  ?  — 
A  long,  loose,  straggling  caravan, 
Camel  and  horse  and  armed  man. 
The  moon's   low   crescent,   glimmering 

o'er 

Its  grave  of  waters  to  the  shore, 
Lights  up  that  mountain  cavalcade, 
And  glints   from  gun   and    spear   and 

blade 
Near  and  more  near  !  —  now  o'er  them 

falls 

The  shadow  of  the  city  walls. 
Hark  to  the  sentry's  challenge,  drowned 
In     the      fierce      trumpet's     charging 

sound  !  — 

The  rush  of  men,  the  musket's  peal, 
The  short,  sharp  clang  of  meeting  steel ! 

Vain,  Moslem,  vain  thy  lifeblood  poured 
So  freely  on  thy  foeman's  sword  ! 
Not  to  the  swift  nor  to  the  strong 
The  battles  of  the  right  belong  ; 
For  he  who  strikes  for  Freedom  wears 
The  armor  of  the  captive's  prayers, 
And  Nature  proffers  to  his  cause 
The  strength  of  her  eternal  laws  ; 
While  he  whose  arm  essays  to  bind 
And  herd  with  common  brutes  his  kind 


Strives  evermore  at  fearful  odds 
With  Nature  and  the  jealous  gods, 
And  dares  the  dread  recoil  which  late 
Or  soon  their  right  shall  vindicate. 

'T  is  done,  —  the  horned  crescent  falls  ! 
The  star-flag  flouts  the  broken  walls  ! 
Joy  to  the  captive  husband  !  joy 
To  thy  sick  heart,  0  brown-locked  boy  ! 
In  sullen  wrath  the  conquered  Moor 
Wide  open  flings  your  dungeon-door, 
And  leaves  ye  free  from  cell  and  chain, 
The  owners  of  yourselves  again. 
Dark  as  his  allies  desert-born, 
Soiled  with  the  battle's  stain,  and  worn 
With  the  long  marches  of  his  band 
Through  hottest  wastes    of    rock  and 

sand,  — 

Scorched  by  the  sun  and  furnace-breath 
Of  the  red  desert's  wind  of  death, 
With    welcome    words     and     grasping 

hands, 
The  victor  and  deliverer  stands  ! 

The  tale  is  one  of  distant  skies  ; 
The  dust  of  half  a  century  lies 
Upon  it  ;  yet  its  hero's  name 
Still  lingers  on  the  lips  of  Fame. 
Men  speak  the  praise  of  him  who  gave 
Deliverance  to  the  Moorman's  slave, 
Yet  dare  to  brand  with  shame  and  crime 
The  heroes  of  our  land  and  time,  — 
The  self-forgetful  ones,  who  stake 
Home,    name,    and   life   for    Freedom's 

sake. 

God  mend  his  heart  who  cannot  feel 
The  impulse  of  a  holy  zeal, 
And  sees  not,  with  his  sordid  eyes, 
The  beauty  of  self-sacrifice  !  "-« 

Though  in  the  sacred  place  he  stands, 
Uplifting  consecrated  hands, 
Unworthy  are  his  lips  to  tell 
Of  Jesus'  martyr-miracle, 
Or  name  aright  that  dread  embrace 
Of  suffering  for  a  fallen  race  ! 


AST1LEA. 

"  JOTC  means  to  settle 
Askraea  in  her  seat  again, 
And  let  down  from  his  golden  chain 
An  age  of  better  metal." 

BEN  JONSON,  1615 

0  POET  rare  and  old  ! 

Thy  words  are  prophecies  ; 
Forward  the  age  of  gold, 

The  new  Saturnian  lies, 


166 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  universal  prayer 

And  hope  are  not  in  vain  ; 

Bise,  brothers  !  arid  prepare 
The  way  for  Saturn's  reign. 

Perish  shall  all  which  takes 
From  labor's  board  and  can  ; 

Perish  shall  all  which  makes 
A  spaniel  of  the  man  ! 

Free  from  its  bonds  the  mind, 
The  body  from  the  rod  ; 

Broken  all  chains  that  bind 
The  image  of  our  God. 

Just  men  no  longer  pine 
Behind  their  prison-bars  ; 

Through  the  rent  dungeon  shine 
The  free  sun  and  the  stars. 

Earth  own,  at  last,  untrod 
By  sect,  or  caste,  or  clan, 

The  fatherhood  of  God, 
The  brotherhood  of  man  ! 

Fraud  fail,  craft  perish,  forth 
The  money-changers  driven, 

And  God's  will  done  on  earth, 
As  now  in  heaven  ! 


INVOCATION. 

THROUGH   thy   clear    spaces,    Lord,    of 

old, 

Formless  and  void  the  dead  earth  rolled  ; 
Deaf  to  thy  heaven's  sweet  music,  blind 
To  the  great  lights  which  o'er  it  shined  ; 
No  sound,  no  ray,  no  warmth,  no 

breath,  — 
A  dumb  despair,  a  wandering  death. 

To  that  dark,  weltering  horror  came 
Thy  spirit,  like  a  subtle  flame,  — 
A  breath  of  life  electrical, 
Awakening  and  transforming  all, 
Till  beat  and  thrilled  in  every  part 
The  pulses  of  a  living  heart. 

Then  knew  their  bounds  the  land  and 

sea  ; 
Then  smiled   the   bloom   of  mead  and 

tree  ; 

From  flower  to  moth,  from  beast  to  man, 
The  quick  creative  impulse  ran  ; 
And  earth,  with  life  from  thee  renewed, 
Was  in  thy  holy  eyesight  good. 


As  lost  and  void,  as  dark  and  cold 
And  formless  as  that  earth  of  old,  — 
A  wandering  waste  of  storm  and  night, 
Midst   spheres  of  song  and  realms  of 

light,  - 

A  blot  upon  thy  holy  sky, 
Untouched,  unwarned  of  thee,  am  I. 

0  thou  who  movest  on  the  deep 
Of  spirits,  wake  my  own  from  sleep  ! 
Its  darkness  melt,  its  coldness  warm, 
The  lost  restore,  the  ill  transform, 
That  flower  and  fruit  henceforth  may  be 
Its  grateful  offering,  worthy  thee. 


THE   CROSS. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  KICHARD  PILLING. 
HAM,  IN  THE  NASHVILLE  PENITEN 
TIARY. 

"  THE  cross,  if  rightly  borne,  shall  be 
No  burden,  but  support  to  thee  "  ;* 
So,  moved  of  old  time  for  our  sake, 
The  holy  monk  of  Kempen  spake. 

Thou  brave  and  true  one  !  upon  whom 
Was  laid  the  cross  of  martyrdom, 
How  didst  thou,  in  thy  generous  youth, 
Bear  witness  to  this  blessed  truth  ! 

Thy  cross  of  suffering  and  of  shame 
A  staff'  within  thy  hands  became, 
In  paths  where  faith  alone  could  see 
The  Master's  steps  supporting  thee. 

Thine  was  the  seed-time  ;  God  alone 
Beholds  the  end  of  what  is  sown  ; 
Beyond  our  vision,  weak  and  dim, 
The  harvest-time  is  hid  with  Him. 

Yet,  unforgotten  where  it  lies, 
That  seed  of  generous  sacrifice, 
Though  seeming  on  the  desert  cast, 
Shall  rise  with  bloom  and  fruit  at  last. 


EVA. 

DRY  the  tears  for  holy  Eva, 
With  the  blessed  angels  leave  her 
Of  the  form  so  soft  and  fail1 
Give  to  earth  the  tender  care. 

For  the  golden  locks  of  Eva 
Let  the  sunny  south-land  give  hei 
*  Thomas  &  Kempia.     Imit.  Christ. 


APRIL. 


167 


Flowery  pillow  of  repose, — 
Orange-bloom  and  budding  rose. 

In  the  better  home  of  Eva 
Let  the  shining  ones  receive  her, 
With  the  welcome-voiced  psalm, 
Harp  of  gold  and  waving  palm  ! 

All  is  light  and  peace  with  Eva  ; 
There  the  darkness  cometh  never  ; 
Tears  are  wiped,  and  fetters  fall, 
And  the  Lord  is  all  in  all. 

Weep  no  more  for  happy  Eva, 

Wrong   and   sin    no   more    shall   grieve 

her  ; 

Care  and  pain  and  weariness 
Lost  in  love  so  measureless. 

Gentle  Eva,  loving  Eva, 
Child  confessor,  true  believer, 
Listener  at  the  Master's  knee, 
"  Suffer  such  to  come  to  me." 

0,  for  faith  like  thine,  sweet  Eva, 
Lighting  all  the  solemn  river, 
And  the  blessings  of  the  poor 
Wafting  to  the  heavenly  shore  ! 


TO   FREDRIKA   BREMER.5? 

SEERESS  of  the  misty  Norland, 
Daughter  of  the  Vikings  bold, 

Welcome  to  the  sunny  Vineland, 
Which  thy  fathers  sought  of  old  ! 

Soft  as  flow  of  Silja's  waters, 

When  the  moon  of  summer  shines, 

Strong  as  Winter  from  his  mountains 
Roaring  through  the  sleeted  pines. 

Heart  and  ear,  we  long  have  listened 
To  thy  saga,  rune,  and  song, 

As  a  household  joy  and  presence 

We  have  known  and  loved  thee  long. 

By  the  mansion's  marble  mantel, 

Round  the  log-walled  cabin's  hearth, 

Thy  sweet  thoughts  and  northern  fan 
cies 
Meet  and  mingle  with  our  mirth. 

And  o'er  weary  spirits  keeping 

Sorrow's  night-watch,  long  and  chill, 

Shine  they  like  thy  sun  of  summer 
Over  midnight  vale  and  hill. 


We  alone  to  thee  are  strangers, 
Thou  our  friend  and  teacher  art  ; 

Come,  and  know  us  as  we  know  thee 
Let  us  meet  thee  heart  to  heart  ! 

To  our  homes  and  household  altars 
We,  in  turn,  thy  steps  would  lead 

As  thy  loving  hand  has  led  us 
O'er  the  threshold  of  the  Swede. 


APRIL. 

"  The  spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way." 

Christabtl. 

T  is  the  noon  of  the  spring-time,  yet 

never  a  bird 
In  the  wind-shaken  elm  or  the  maple  is 

heard  ; 
For  green  meadow-grasses  wide  levels  of 

snow, 
And  blowing  of  drifts  where  the  crocus 

should  blow  : 
Where   wind-flower   and  violet,    amber 

and  white, 
On    south  -  sloping    brook  sides    should 

smile  in  the  light, 

O'er  the  cold  winter-beds  of  their  late- 
waking  roots 
The  frosty  flake  eddies,  the  ice-crystal 

shoots  ; 

And,    longing   for   light,    under    wind- 
driven  heaps, 
Round  the  boles  of  the  pine -wood  the 

ground-laurel  creeps, 
Unkissed  of  the  sunshine,  unbaptized  of 

showers, 
With     buds     scarcely    swelled,    which 

should  burst  into  flowers  ! 
We  wait  for  thy  coining,    sweet  wind  of 

the  south  ! 
For  the  touch  of  thy  light  wings,    the 

kiss  of  thy  mouth  ; 
For  the  yearly  evangel  thou  beareet  from 

God, 
Resurrection  and  life  to  the  graves  of  the 

sod  ! 
Up  our  long  river-valley,  for  days,  have 

not  ceased 
The  wail  and  the  shriek  of  the  bitter 

northeast,  — 
Raw  and  chill,  as  if  winnowed  through 

ices  and  snow, 
All  the  way  from  the  land  of  the  wild 

Esquimau,  — 
Until  all  our  dreams  of  the  land  of  the-. 

blest, 


168 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Like  that  red  hunter's,  turn  to  the  sunny 
southwest. 

0  soul  of  the  spring-time,  its  light  and 
its  breath, 

Bring  warmth  to  this  coldness,  bring 
life  to  this  death  ; 

Renew  the  great  miracle  ;  let  us  behold 

The  stone  from  the  mouth  of  the  sepul 
chre  rolled, 

And  Nature,  like  Lazarus,  rise,  as  of 
old! 

Let  our  faith,  which  in  darkness  and 
coldness  has  lain, 

Revive  with  the  warmth  and  the  bright 
ness  again, 

And  in  blooming  of  flower  ;nnl  budding 
of  tree 

The  symbols  and  types  of  our  destiny 
see  ; 

The  life  of  the  spring-time,  the  life  of 
the  whole, 

And,  as  sun  to  the  sleeping  earth,  love 
to  the  soul  ! 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES. 


THE  evil  days  have  come,  —  the  poor 

Are  made  a  prey  ; 
Bar  up  the  hospitable  door, 
Put  out  the  fire-lights,  point  no  more 

The  wanderer's  way. 

For  Pity  now  is  crime  ;  the  chain 

Which  binds  our  States 
Ts  melted  at  her  hearth  in  twain, 
Is  rusted  by  her  tears'  soft  rain  : 

Close  up  her  gates. 

Our  Union,  like  a  glacier  stirred 

By  voice  below, 

Or  bell  of  kine,  or  wing  of  bird, 
A  beggar's  crust,  a  kindly  word 

May  overthrow  ! 

Poor,   whispering   tremblers  !  —  yet  we 

boast 

Our  blood  and  name  ; 
Bursting  its  century-bolted  frost, 
Each     gray    cairn    on   the   Northman's 

coast 
Cries  out  for  shame  ! 

0  for  the  open  firmament, 
The  prairie  free, 


The  desert  hillside,  cavern-rent, 
The  Pawnee's  lodge,  the  Arab's  tent, 
The  Bushman's  tree  ! 

Than  web  of  Persian  loom  most  rare, 

Or  soft  divan, 

Better  the  rough  rock,  bleak  and  bare, 
Or  hollow  tree,  which  man  may  share 

With  suffering  man. 

I  hear  a  voice  :   "  Thus  saith  the  Law, 

Let  Love  be  dumb  ; 
Clasping  her  liberal  hands  in  awe, 
Let  sweet-lipped  Charity  withdraw 

From  hearth  and  home." 

I  hear  another  voice  :   "The  poor 

Are  thine  to  feed  ; 
Turn  not  the  outcast  from  thy  door, 
Nor  give  to  bonds  and  wrong  once  mo/e» 

Whom  God  hath  freed.." 

Dear  Lord  !  between  that  law  and  thee. 

No  choice  remains  ; 
Yet  not  untrue  to  man's  decree, 
Though  spurning  its  rewards,  is  he 

Who  bears  its  pains. 

Not  mine  Sedition's  trumpet-blast 

And  threatening  word  ; 
I  read  the  lesson  of  the  Past, 
That  firm  endurance  wins  at  last 

More  than  the  sword. 

0  clear-eyed  Faith,  and  Patience,  thou 

So  calm  and  strong  ! 
Lend  strength  to  weakness,  teach  us  how 
The  sleepless  eyes  of  God  look  through 

This  night  of  wrong  ! 


A   SABBATH   SCENE. 

SCARCE  had  the  solemn  Sabbath-bell 
Ceased  quivering  in  the  steeple, 

Scarce  had  the  parson  to  his  desk 
Walked  stately  through  his  people, 

When  down  the  summer-shaded  street 

A  wasted  female  figure, 
With  dusky  brow  and  naked  feet, 

Came  rushing  wild  and  eager. 

She   saw  the  white    spire   through  the 
trees, 

She  heard  the  sweet  hymn  swelling  : 
0  pitying  Christ  !  a  refuge  give 

That  poor  one  in  thy  dwelling  ! 


A  SABBATH  SCENE. 


169 


Like  a  scared  fawn  before  the  hounds, 
Right  up  the  aisle  she  glided, 

While  close  behind  her,  whip  in  hand, 
A  lank -haired  hunter  strided. 

She  raised  a  keen  and  bitter  cry, 
To  Heaven  and  Earth  appealing  ;  — 

Were  manhood's  generous  pulses  dead  ? 
Had  woman's  heart  no  feeling  ? 

A  score  of  stout  hands  rose  between 

The  hunter  and  the  flying  : 
Age  clenched  his  staff,  and  maiden  eyes 

Flashed  tearful,  yet  defying. 

"Who   dares   profane   this   house    and 

day  ? " 

}    Cried  out  the  angry  pastor. 
' '  Why,  bless  your  soul,  the  wench  's  a 

slave, 
And  I  'm  her  lord  and  master  ! 

"  1 ' ve  law  and  gospel  on  rny  side, 
And  who  shall  dare  refuse  me  ?" 

Down  came  the  parson,  bowing  low, 
"  My  good  sir,  pray  excuse  me  ! 

"  Of  course  I  know  your  right  divine 
To  own  and  work  and  whip  her  ; 

Quick,  deacon,  throw  that  Polyglott 
Before  the  wench,  and  trip  her  !  " 

Plump    dropped    the    holy    tome,    and 
o'er 

Its  sacred  pages  stumbling, 
Bound  hand  and  foot,  a  slave  once  more, 

The  hapless  wretch  lay  trembling. 

J  saw  the  parson  tie  the  knots, 
The  while  his  flock  addressing, 

The  Scriptural  claims  of  slavery 
With  text  on  text  impressing. 

"Although,"  said  he,  "  on  Sabbath  day 

All  secular  occupations 
Are  deadly  sins,  we  must  fulfil 
i    Our  moral  obligations  : 

"  And  this  commends  itself  as  one 

To  every  conscience  tender  ; 
As  Paul  sent  back  Onesimus, 

My  Christian  friends,  we  send  her  ! ' 

Shriek  rose  on  shriek,  —  the  Sabbath  air 
Her  wild  cries  tore  asunder  ; 

I  listened,  with  hushed  breath,  to  hear 
God  answering  with  his  thunder  ! 


All  still  !  —  the  very  altar's  cloth 
Had  smothered  down  her  shrieking, 

And,    dumb,   she   turned   from  face   to 

face, 
For  human  pity  seeking  ! 

I  saw  her  dragged  along  the  aisle, 
Her  shackles  harshly  clanking  ; 

I  heard  the  parson,  over  all, 
The  Lord  devoutly  thanking  ! 

My  brain  took  fire  :  "  Is  this,"  I  cried, 
"  The    end    of    prayer    and    preach- 

ing? 
Then    down   with   pulpit,    down    with 

priest, 
And  give  us  Nature's  teaching  ! 

' '  Foul  shame  and  scorn  be  on  ye  all 

Who  turn  the  good  to  evil, 
And  steal  the  Bible  from  the  Lord, 

To  give  it  to  the  Devil  ! 

"  Than  garbled  text  or  parchment  law 

I  own  a  statute  higher  ; 
And  God  is  true,  though  every  book 

And  every  man's  a  liar  !  " 

Just  then  I  felt  the  deacon's  hand 
In  wrath  my  coat-tail  seize  on  ; 

I  heard  the  priest  cry,  "  Infidel  !  " 
The  lawyer  mutter,  "  Treason  !  " 

I  started  up,  —  where  now  were  church, 
Slave,  master,  priest,  and  people  ? 

I  only  heard  the  supper-bell, 
Instead  of  clanging  steeple. 

But,  on  the  open  window's  sill, 

O'er  which  the  white  blooms  drifted, 

The  pages  of  a  good  old  Book 
The  wind  of  summer  lifted, 

And  flower  and  vine,  like  angel  wings 

Around  the  Holy  Mother, 
"Waved  softly  there,  as  if  God's  truth 

And  Mercy  kissed  each  other. 

And  freely  from  the  cherry-bough 
Above  the  casement  swinging, 

With  golden  bosom  to  the  sun, 
The  oriole  was  singing. 

As  bird  and  flower  made  plain  of  old 

The  lesson  of  the  Teacher, 
So  now  I  heard  the  written  Word 

Interpreted  by  Nature  ! 


170 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


For  to  my  ear  methouglit  the  breeze 
Bore  Freedom's  blessed  word  on  ; 

THUS  SAITH  THE  LORD  :    BREAK  EVERY 

YOKE, 
UNDO  THE  HEAVY  BURDEN  ! 


REMEMBRANCE. 

WITH    COPIES    OF   THE    AUTHOR'S   WRIT 
INGS. 

FRIEND  of  mine  !  whose  lot  was  cast 
"With  me  in  the  distant  past,  — 
Where,  like  shadows  flitting  fast, 

Fact  and  iancy,  thought  and  theme, 
Word  and  work,  begin  to  seem 
Like  a  half-remembered  dream  ! 

Touched    by    change    have    all    things 

been, 

Yet  I  think  of  thee  as  when 
"We  had  speech  of  lip  and  pen. 

For  the  calm  thy  kindness  lent 
To  a  path  of  discontent, 
Rough  with  trial  and  dissent  ; 

Gentle  words  where  such  were  few, 
Softening     blame     where     blame     was 

true, 
Praising  where  small  praise  was  due  ; 

For  a  waking  dream  made  good, 

For  an  ideal  understood, 

For  thy  Christian  womanhood  ; 

For  thy  marvellous  gift  to  cull 
From  our  common  life  and  dull 
Whatsoe'er  is  beautiful ; 

Thoughts  and  fancies,  Hybla's  bees 
Dropping  sweetness  ;  true  heart's-ease 
Of  congenial  sympathies  ;  — 

Still  for  these  I  own  my  debt  ; 
Memory,  with  her  eyelids  wet, 
Fain  would  thank  thee  even  yet  ! 

And  as  one  who  scatters  flowers 
Where  the  Queen  of  May's  sweet  hours 
Sits,  o'ertwined  with  blossomed  bowers, 

In  superfluous  zeal  bestowing 
Gifts  where  gifts  are  overflowing, 
So  I  pay  the  debt  I  'in  owing. 


To  thy  full  thoughts,  gay  or  sad, 
Sunny-hued  or  sober  clad, 
Something  of  my  own  I  add  ; 

Well  assured  that  thou  wilt  take 
Even  the  offering  which  I  make 
Kindly  for  the  giver's  sake. 


THE     POOR    VOTER 
TION  DAY. 


ON     ELEC* 


THE  proudest  now  is  but  my  peer, 

The  highest  not  more  high  ; 
To-day,  of  all  the  weary  year, 

A  king  of  men  am  I . 
To-day,  alike  are  great  and  small, 

The  nameless  and  the  known  ; 
My  palace  is  the  people's  hall, 

The  ballot-box  my  throne  ! 

Who  serves  to-day  upon  the  list 

Beside  the  served  shall  stand  ; 
Alike  the  brown  and  wrinkled  fist, 

The  gloved  and  dainty  hand  ! 
The  rich  is  level  with  the  poor, 

The  weak  is  strong  to-day  ; 
And  sleekest  broadcloth  counts  no  more 

Than  homespun  frock  of  gray. 

To-day  let  pomp  and  vain  pretence 

My  stubborn  right  abide  ; 
I  set  a  plain  man's  common  sense 

Against  the  pedant's  pride. 
To-day  shall  simple  manhood  try 

The  strength  of  gold  and  land  ; 
The  wide  world  has  not  wealth  to  buy 

The  power  in  my  right  hand ! 

While  there  's  a  grief  to  seek  redress, 

Or  balance  to  adjust, 
Where  weighs  our  living  manhood  less 

Than  Mammon's  vilest  dust,  — 
While  there's  a  right  to  need  my  vote, 

A  wrong  to  sweep  away, 
Up  !   clouted  knee  and  ragged  coat ! 

A  man  's  a  man  to-day ! 


TRUST. 

THE  same  old  baffling  questions  !  0  my 

friend, 

I  cannot  answer  them.     In  vain  I  send 
My  soul  into  the  dark,  where  never  burn, 
The  lamps  of  science,  nor  the  natural 

light 


KATHLEEN. 


171 


Of  Reason's  sun  and  stars  !     I   cannot 

learn 
Their  great  and  solemn  meanings,  nor 

discern 

The  awful  secrets  of  the  eyes  which  turn 
Evermore  on  us  through  the  day  and 

night 
With   silent   challenge   and  a   dumb 

demand, 

Proffering  the  riddles  of  the  dread  un 
known, 
Like  the  calm  Sphinxes,  with  their  eyes 

of  stone, 
Questioning  the  centuries  from  their 

veils  of  sand  ! 

I  have  no  answer  for  myself  or  thee, 
Save  that  I  learned  beside  my  mother's 

knee  ; 

"  All  is  of  God  that  is,  and  is  to  be  ; 
And  God  is  good."     Let  this  suffice 

us  still, 
Resting  in  childlike  trust  upon  his 

will 
Who  moves  to  his  great  ends  un thwarted 

by  the  ill. 


KATHLEEN.58 

0  NORAH,  lay  your  basket  down, 

And  rest  your  weary  hand, 
And  come  and  hear  me  sing  a  song 

Of  our  old  Ireland. 

There  was  a  lord  of  Galaway, 

A  mighty  lord  was  he  ; 
And  he  did  wed  a  second  wife, 

A  maid  of  low  degree. 

But  he  was  old,  and  she  was  young, 

And  so,  in  evil  spite, 
She  baked  the  black  bread  for  his  kin, 

And  fed  her  own  with  white. 

She  whipped  the  maids  and  starved  the 
kern, 

And  drove  away  the  poor  ; 
"Ah,  woe  is  me  !  "  the  old  lord  said, 

"  I  rue  my  bargain  sore  !  " 

This  lord  he  had  a  daughter  fair, 

Beloved  of  old  and  young, 
And  nightly  round  the  shealing-fires 

Of  her  the  gleeman  sung. 

"  As  sweet  and  good  is  young  Kathleen 
As  Eve  before  her  fall "  : 


So  sang  the  harper  at  the  fair, 
So  harped  he  in  the  hall. 

' '  0  come  to  me,  my  daughter  dear  ! 

Come  sit  upon  my  knee, 
For  looking  in  your  face,  Kathleen, 

Your  mother's  own  I  see  !  " 

He  smoothed  and  smoothed  her  hair  away; 

He  kissed  her  forehead  fair  ; 
"  It  is  my  darling  Mary's  brow, 

It  is  my  darling's  hair  !  " 

0,  then  spake  up  the  angry  dame, 
"Get  up,  get  up,"  quoth  she, 

"  I  '11  sell  ye  over  Ireland, 
I  '11  sell  ye  o'er  the  sea  !  " 

She  clipped  her  glossy  hair  away, 
That  none  her  rank  might  know, 

She  took  away  her  gown  of  silk, 
And  gave  her  one  of  tow, 

And  sent  her  down  to  Limerick  town 

And  to  a  seaman  sold 
This  daughter  of  an  Irish  lord 

For  ten  good  pounds  in  gold. 

The  lord  he  smote  upon  his  breast, 

And  tore  his  beard  so  gray  ; 
But  he  was  old,  and  she  was  young, 

And  so  she  had  her  way. 

Sure  that  same  night  the  Banshee  howlul 

To  fright  the  evil  dame, 
And  fairy  folks,  who  loved  Kathleen, 

With  funeral  torches  came. 

She  watched  them  glancing  through  the 
trees, 

And  glimmering  down  the  hill  ; 
They  crept  before  the  dead-vault  door, 

And  there  they  all  stood  still ! 

"Get   up,    old  man!    the  wake-lights 
shine  !  " 

"Ye  mnrthering  witch,"  quoth  he, 
"So  I  'm  rid  of  your  tongue,  I  little  caiv 

If  they  shine  for  you  or  me." 

"  0,  whoso  brings  my  daughter  back, 
My  gold  and  land  shall  have  !  " 

0,  then  spake  up  his  handsome  page, 
"  No  gold  nor  land  I  crave  ! 

"  But  give  to  me  your  daughter  dear, 
Give  sweet  Kathleen  to  me, 


172 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Be  she  on  sea  or  be  she  on  land, 
I  '11  bring  her  back  to  thee." 

"  My  daughter  is  a  lady  born, 

And  you  of  low  degree, 
But  she  shall  be  your  bride  the  day 

You  bring  her  baek  to  me." 

He  sailed  east,  he  sailed  west, 

And  far  and  long  sailed  he, 
Until  he  came  to  Boston  town, 

Across  the  great  salt  sea. 

'•'  0,  have  ye  seen  the  young  Kathleen, 

The  flower  of  Ireland  ? 
Ye  '11  know  her  by  her  eyes  so  blue, 

And  by  her  snow-white  hand  !  " 

Out  spake  an  ancient  man,  "I  know 
The  maiden  whom  ye  mean  ; 

I  bought  her  of  a  Limerick  man, 
And  she  is  called  Kathleen. 

"  No  skill  hath  she  in  household  work, 
Her  hands  are  soft  and  white, 

Yet  well  by  loving  looks  and  ways 
She  doth  her  cost  requite." 

So  up  they  walked  through  Boston  town, 

And  met  a  maiden  fair, 
A  little  basket  on  her  arm 

So  snowy-white  and  bare. 

"  Come  hither,  child,  and  say  hast  thou 
This  young  man  ever  seen  ?" 

They  Avept  within  each  other's  aims, 
The  page  and  young  Kathleen. 

"  0  give  to  me  this  darling  child, 
And  take  my  purse  of  gold." 

"  Nay,  not  by  me,"  her  master  said, 
"  Shall  sweet  Kathleen  be  sold. 

x"  We  loved  her  in  the  place  of  one 

The  Lord  hath  early  ta'en  ; 
But,  since  her  heart 's  in  Ireland, 

We  give  her  back  again  !  " 

0,  for  that  same  the  saints  in  heaven 
For  his  poor  soul  shall  pray, 

And  Mary  Mother  wash  with  tears 
His  heresies  away. 

Sure  now  they  dwell  in  Ireland, 

As  you  go  up  Claremore 
Ye  '11  see  their  castle  looking  down 

The  pleasant  Gal  way  shore. 


And  the  old  lord's  wife  is  dead  and  gone, 

And  a  happy  man  is  he, 
For  he  sits  beside  his  own  Kathleen, 

With  her  darling  on  his  knee. 

\   FIRST-DAY   THOUGHTS./ 

IN  calm  and  cool  and  silence,  once  again 
I  find  my  old  accustomed  place  among 
My  brethren,  where,  perchance,  no 

human  tongue 
Shall  utter  words  ;  where  never  hymn 

is  sung, 

Nor  deep-toned  organ  blown,  nor  cen 
ser  swung, 

Nor  dim  light  falling  through  the  pic 
tured  pane  ! 

There,  syllabled  by  silence,  let  me  hear 
The  still  small  voice  \vhicli  reached  the 

prophet's  ear  ; 

Read  in  my  heart  a  still  diviner  law 
Than  Israel's  leader  on  his  tables  saw  ! 
There  let  me  strive  with  each  besetting 

sin, 

Recall  my  wandering  fancies,  and  re 
strain 

The  sore  disquiet  of  a  restless  brain  ; 
And,  as  the  path  of  duty  is  made  plain, 
May  grace  be  given  that    I   may   walk 

therein, 
Not  like  the  hireling,  for  his  seHish 

gain, 
With   backward   glances  and   reluctant 

tread, 

Making  a  merit  of  his  coward  dread,  — 
But,  cheerful,  in  the  light  around  me 

thrown, 
Walking    as  one    to  pleasant  service 

led; 

Doing  God's  will  as  if  it  were  mv  own, 
Yet  trusting   not   in   mine,  but   in   his 
strength  alone  ! 


KOSSUTH.59 

TYPE  of  two  mighty  continents  !  —  com 
bining 

The    strength    of    Europe    with   the 
warmth  and  glow 

Of  Asian  song  and  prophecy,  —  the  shin 
ing 

Of  Orient   splendors    over    Northern 
snow  ! 

Who  shall  receive  him  ?   Who,  unblush 
ing,  speak 


TO    MY   OLD    SCHOOLMASTER. 


173 


Welcome  to  him,  who,  while  he  strove 
to  break 

The  Austrian  yoke  from  Magyar  necks, 
smote  off 

At  the  same   blow  the  fetters   of  the 
serf,  - 

Hearing  the  altar  of  his  Father-land 
On    the   firm   base   of  freedom,    and 
thereby 

Lifting  to  Heaven  a  patriot's  stainless 

hand, 

Mocked  not  the  God  of  Justice  with  a 
lie! 

Who  shall  be   Freedom's  mouth-piece  ? 
Who  shall  give 

Her  welcoming  cheer  to  the  great  fugi 
tive  ? 

Not  he  who,  all  her  sacred  trusts  betray 
ing, 
Is  scourging  back  to  slavery's  hell  of 

pain 

The    swarthy   Kossuths   of  our  land 
again  ! 

Not  he  whose  utterance  now  from  lips 
designed 

The  bugle-march  of  Liberty  to  wind, 

And  call  her  hosts  beneath  the  breaking 
light,  - 

The  keen  reveille  of  her  morn  of  fight, — 
Is  but  the  hoarse  note  of  the  blood 
hound's  baying, 

The  wolf's  long  howl  behind  the  bond 
man's  flight ! 

0  for  the  tongue  of  him  who  lies  at  rest 
In    Quincy's    shade    of    patrimonial 
trees,  — 

Last  of  the   Puritan   tribunes  and  the 

best,  — 

To  lend  a  voice  to  Freedom's  sympa 
thies, 

And  hail  the  coming  of  the  noblest  guest 

The  Old   World's  wrong  has  given  the 
New  World  of  the  West  ! 


TO   MY  OLD   SCHOOLMASTER. 

AN   EPISTLE    NOT    AFTER    THE    MANNER 
OF    HORACE. 

OLD  friend,  kind  friend  !  lightly  down 

Drop  time's  snow-flakes  on  thy  crown  ! 

Never  be  thy  shadow  less, 

Never  fail  thy  cheerfulness  ; 

Care,  that  kills  the  cat,  may  plough 

Wrinkles  in  the  miser's  brow, 

Deepen  envy's  spiteful  frown, 


Draw  the  mouths  of  bigots  down, 
Plague  ambition's  dream,  and  sit 
Heavy  on  the  hypocrite, 
Haunt  the  rich  man's  door,  and  ride 
In  the  gilded  coach  of  pride  ;  — 
Let  the  fiend  pass  !  —  what  can  he 
Find  to  do  with  such  as  thee  ? 
Seldom  comes  that  evil  guest 
Where  the  conscience  lies  at  rest, 
And  brown  health  and  quiet  wit 
Smiling  on  the  threshold  sit. 

I,  the  urchin  unto  whom, 
In  that  smoked  and  dingy  room, 
Where  the  district  gave  thee  rule 
O'er  its  ragged  winter  school, 
Thou  didst  teach  the  mysteries 
Of  those  weary  A  B  C's,  — 
Where,  to  fill  the  every  pause 
Of  thy  wrise  and  learned  saws, 
Through  the  cracked  and  crazy  wrall 
Came  the  cradle-rock  and  squall, 
And  the  goodman's  voice,  at  strife 
With  his  shrill  and  tipsy  wife,  — 
Luring  us  by  stories  old, 
With  a  comic  unction  told, 
More  than  by  the  eloquence 
Of  terse  birchen  arguments 
(Doubtful  gain,  I  fear),  to  look 
With  complacence  on  a  book  !  — 
Where  the  genial  pedagogue 
Half  forgot  his  rogues  to  flog, 
Citing  tale  or  apologue, 
Wise  and  merry  in  its  drift 
As  oldPhjfidrus'  twofold  gift, 
Had  the  little  rebels  known  it, 
Risum  ct  prudcntiam  monet ! 
I,  —  the  man  of  middle  years, 
In  whose  sable  locks  appears 
Many  a  warning  fleck  of  gray,  -~ 
Looking  back  to  that  far  day, 
And  thy  primal  lessons,  feel 
Grateful  smiles  my  lips  unseal, 
As,  remembering  thee,  I  blend 
Olden  teacher,  present  friend, 
Wise  with  antiquarian  search, 
In  the  scrolls  of  State  and  Church  : 
Named  on  history's  title-page, 
Parish-clerk  and  justice  sage  ; 
For  the  ferule's  wholesome  awe 
Wielding  now  the  sword  of  law. 

Threshing  Time's  neglected  sheaves, 
Gathering  up  the  scattered  leaves 
Which  the  wrinkled  sibyl  cast 
Careless  from  her  as  she  passed,  — 
Twofold  citizen  art  them, 


174 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Freeman  of  the  past  and  now. 

He  who  bore  thy  name  of  old 

Midway  in  the  heavens  did  hold 

Over  Gibeon  moon  and  sun  ; 

Thou  hast  bidden  them  backward  run  ; 

Of  to-day  the  present  ray 

Flinging  over  yesterday  ! 

Let  the  busy  ones  deride 
What  I  deem  of  right  thy  pride  : 
Let  the  fools  their  tread-mills  grind, 
Look  not  forward  nor  behind, 
Shuffle  in  and  wriggle  out, 
Veer  with  every  breeze  about, 
Turning  like  a  windmill  sail, 
Or  a  dog  that  seeks  his  tail  ; 
Let  them  laugh  to  see  thee  fast 
Tabernacled  in  the  Past, 
Working  out  with  eye  and  lip, 
Riddles  of  old  penmanship, 
Patient  as  Belzoni  there 
Sorting  out,  with  loving  care, 
Mummies  of  dead  questions  stripped 
From  their  sevenfold  manuscript  ! 

Dabbling,  in  their  noisy  way, 

In  the  puddles  of  to-day, 

Little  know  they  of  that  vast 

Solemn  ocean  of  the  past, 

On  whose  margin,  wreck -bespread, 

Thou  art  walking  with  the  dead, 

Questioning  the  stranded  years, 

Waking  smiles,  by  turns,  and  tears, 

As  thou  callest  up  again 

Shapes  the  dust  has  long  o'erlain,  — 

Fair-haired  woman,  bearded  man, 

Cavalier  and  Puritan  ; 

In  an  age  whose  eager  view 

Seeks  but  present  things,  and  new, 

Mad  for  party,  sect  and  gold, 

Teaching  reverence  for  the  old. 

On  that  shore,  with  fowler's  tact, 
Coolly  bagging  fact  on  fact, 
Naught  amiss  to  thee  can  float, 
Tale,  or  song,  or  anecdote  ; 
Village  gossip,  centuries  old. 
Scandals  by  our  grandams  told, 
What  the  pilgrim's  table  spread, 
Where  he  lived,  and  whom  he  wed, 
Long-drawn  bill  of  wine  and  beer 
For  his  ordination  cheer, 
Or  the  flip  that  wellnigh  made 
Glad  his  funeral  cavalcade  ; 
Weary  prose,  and  poet's  lines, 
Flavored  by  their  age,  like  wines, 
Eulogistic  of  some  quaint, 


Doubtful,  puritanic  saint  ; 

Lays  that  quickened  husking  jigs, 

Jests  that  shook  grave  periwigs, 

When  the  parson  had  his  jokes 

And  his  glass,  like  other  folks  ; 

Sermons  that,  for  mortal  hours, 

Taxed  our  fathers'  vital  powers, 

As  the  long  nineteenthlies  poured 

Dowmvard  from  the  sounding-board, 

And,  for  fire  of  Pentecost, 

Touched  their  beards  December's  frost 

Time  is  hastening  on,  and  wTe 
What  our  father's  are  shall  be,  — 
Shadow-shapes  of  memory  ! 
Joined  to  that  vast  multitude 
Where  the  great  are  but  the  good, 
And  the  mind  of  strength  shall  proye 
Weaker  than  the  heart  of  love  ; 
Pride  of  gray  beard  wisdom  less 
Than  the  infant's  guilelessness, 
And  his  song  of  sorrow  more 
Than  the  crown  the  Psalmist  wore  ! 
Who  shall  then,  with  pious  zeal, 
At  our  moss-grown  thresholds  kneel, 
From  a  stained  and  stony  page 
Reading  to  a  careless  age, 
With  a  patient  eye  like  thine, 
Prosing  tale  and  limping  line, 
Names  and  words  the  hoary  rime 
Of  the  Past  has  made  sublime  ? 
Who  shall  work  for  us  as  well 
The  antiquarian's  miracle  ? 
Who  to  seeming  life  recall 
Teacher  grave  and  pupil  small  ? 
Who  shall  give  to  thee  and  me 
Freeholds  in  futurity  ? 

Well,  whatever  lot  be  mine, 
Long  and  happy  days  be  thine, 
Ere  thy  full  and  honored  age 
Dates  of  time  its  latest  page  ! 
Squire  for  master,  State  for  school, 
Wisely  lenient,  live  and  rule  ; 
Over  grown-up  knave  and  rogue 
Play  the  watchful  pedagogue  ; 
Or,  while  pleasure  smiles  on  duty, 
At  the  call  of  youth  and  beauty, 
Speak  for  them  the  spell  of  law 
Which  shall  bar  and  bolt  withdraw, 
And  the  flaming  sword  remove 
From  the  Paradise  of  Love. 
Still,  with  undimmed  eyesight,  pore 
Ancient  tome  and  record  o'er  ; 
Still  thy  week-day  lyrics  croon, 
Pitch  in  church  the  Sunday  tune, 
Showing  something,  in  thy  part, 


THE   PANORAMA. 


175 


Of  the  old  Puritanic  art, 
Singer  after  Sternhold's  heart  ! 
In  thy  pew,  for  many  a  year, 
Homilies  from  Oldbug  hear,60 
Who  to  wit  like  that  of  South, 
And  the  Syrian's  golden  mouth, 
Doth  the  homely  pathos  add 
Which  the  pilgrim  preachers  had  ; 
Breaking,  like  a  child  at  play, 
Gilded  idols  of  the  day, 
Cant  of  knave  and  pomp  of  fool 
Tossing  with  his  ridicule, 


Yet,  in  earnest  or  in  jest, 
Ever  keeping  truth  abreast. 
And,  when  thou  art  called,  at  last, 
To  thy  townsmen  of  the  past, 
Not  as  stranger  shalt  thou  come  ; 
Thou  shalt  find  thyself  at  home  ! 
With  the  little  and  the  big, 
Woollen  cap  and  periwig, 
Madam  in  her  high-laced  ruff, 
Goody  in  her  hoine-made  stuff,  — 
Wise  and  simple,  rich  and  poor, 
Thou  hast  known  them  all  before  ! 


THE    PANORAMA, 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  PANORAMA. 

"  A  !  fredome  is  a  nobill  thing ! 
Fredome  mayse  man  to  haif  liking. 
Fredorne  all  solace  to  man  giffis  ; 
He  levys  at  ese  that  frely  levys  ! 
A  nobil  hart  may  haif  nane  ese 
Na  ellys  nocht  that  may  him  plese 
Gyff  Fredome  failythe." 

ARCHDEACON  BARBOUR. 

THROUGH  the  long  hall  the  shuttered 

windows  shed 
A   dubious    light    on    every    upturned 

head,  — 

On  locks  like  those  of  Absalom  the  fair, 
On   the  bald  apex   ringed  with   scanty 

hair, 
On  blank   indifference   and  on   curious 

stare  ; 
On  the  pale  Showman  reading  from  his 

stage 

The  hieroglyphics  of  that  facial  page  ; 
Half  sad,  half  scornful,  listening  to  the 

bruit 

Of  restless  cane-tap  and  impatient  foot, 
And   the  shrill  call,  across  the  general 

din, 
"  Roll  up  your  curtain  !     Let  the  show 

begin  !  " 

At  length  a  murmur  like  the  winds 

that  break 

Into  green   waves  the  prairie's  grassy 
lake, 


Deepened  and  swelled  to  music  clewf 

and  loud, 
And,  as  the  west-wind  lifts  a  summer 

cloud, 

The  curtain  rose,  disclosing  wide  and  far 
A  green  land  stretching  to  the  evening  star, 
Fair  rivers,  skirted  by  primeval  trees 
And  flowers  hummed  over  by  the  desert 

bees, 
Marked   by  tall  bluffs  whose  slopes  of 

greenness  show 

Fantastic  outcrops  of  the  rock  below,  — • 
The  slow  result  of  patient  Nature's  pains, 
And  plastic  fingering  of  her  sun  and 

rains,  — 

Arch,  tower,  and  gate,  grotesquely  win 
dowed  hall, 
And  long  escarpment  of  half-crumbled 

wall, 
Huger  than  those   which,    from   steep 

hills  of  vine, 
Stare  through   their  loopholes   on   the 

travelled  Rhine  ; 

Suggesting  vaguely  to  the  gazer's  mind 
A  fancy,  idle  as  the  prairie  wind, 
Of  the   land's   dwellers  in   an  age  un« 

guessed,  — 
The  unsung  Jotuns  of  the  mystic  West. 

Beyond,  the  prairie's   sea-like  swells 

surpass 

The   Tartar's  marvels  of  his   Land   of 
Grass, 


176 


THE  PANORAMA. 


Vast  as  the  sky  against  whose  sunset 

shores 
Wave  after  wave  the  billowy  greenness 

pours  ; 
And,  onward  still,  like  islands  in  that 

main 

Loom  the  rough  peaks  of  many  a  moun 
tain  chain, 
Whence  east  and  west  a  thousand  waters 

run 
From  winter  lingering  under  summer's 

sun. 
And,  still  beyond,  long  lines   of  foam 

and  sand 
Tell  where   Pacific  rolls  his  waves   a- 

land, 
From    many  a    wide-lapped  port    and 

land-locked  bay, 
Opening    with    thunderous    pomp    the 

world's  highway 
To  Indian  isles  of  spice,  and  marts  of  far 

Cathay. 

"Such,"  said  the  Showman,  as  the 

curtain  fell, 

"  Is  the  new  Canaan  of  our  Israel,  — 
The  land  of  promise   to  the    swarming 

North, 

Which,  hive -like,  sends  its  annual  sur 
plus  forth, 
To  the  poor  Southron  on  his  worn-out 

soil, 

Scathed  by  the  curses  of  unnatural  toil  ; 
To  Europe's   exiles  seeking  home  and 

rest, 
And  the  lank  nomads  of  the  wandering 

West, 
Who,  asking  neither,  in  their  love  of 

change 

And  the  free  bison's  amplitude  of  range, 
Rear  the  log-hut,    for  present    shelter 

meant, 
Not  future  comfort,  like  an  Arab's  tent." 

Then  spake  a  shrewd  on -looker,  "  Sir," 
said  he, 

"I  like  your  picture,  but  I  fain  would 
see 

A  sketch  of  what  your  promised  land 
will  be 

When,  with  electric  nerve,  and  fiery- 
brained, 

With  Nature's  forces  to  its  chariot 
chained, 

The  future  grasping,  by  the  past  obeyed, 

The  twentieth  century  rounds  a  new 
decade." 


Then  said  the  Showman,  sadly  :  "  He 

who  grieves 

Over  the  scattering  of  the  sibyl's  leaves 
Unwisely  mourns.  Suffice  it,  that  we 

know 
What  needs  must  ripen  from  the  seed 

we  sow  ; 
That   present  time   is   but    the    mould 

wherein 

We  cast  the  shapes  of  holiness  and  sin. 
A  painful  watcher  of  the  passing  hour, 
Its  lust  of  gold,  its  strife  for  place  and 

power  ; 
Its  lack  of  manhood,  honor,  reverence, 

truth, 

Wise-thoughted  age,  and  generous- 
hearted  youth  ; 

Nor  yet  unmindful  of  each  better  sign,  — . 
The  low,  far  lights,  which  on  th'  horizon 

shine, 
Like  those  which  sometimes  tremble  on 

the  rim 
Of  clouded   skies  when  day  is  closing 

dim, 
Flashing  athwart  the  purple  spears  of 

rain 
The    hope    of    sunshine    on    the    hills 

again  :  — 
I   need  no  prophet's   word,  nor  shapes 

that  pass 
Like   clouding    shadows    o'er    a   magic 

glass  ; 

For  now,  as  ever,  passionless  and  cold, 
Doth  the  dread  angel  of  the  future  hold 
Evil  and  good  before  us,  with  no  voice 
Or  warning   look   to   guide   us   in   our 

choice  ; 
With  spectral  hands  outreaching  through 

the  gloom 
The   shadowy  contrasts   of  the    coming 

doom. 
Transferred  from  these,  it  now  remains 

to  give 
The  sun  and  shade  of  Fate's  alternative." 

Then,  with  a  burst  of  music,  touching 
all 

The  keys  of  thrifty  life,  —  the  mill- 
stream's  fall, 

The  engine's  pant  along  its  quivering 
rails, 

The  anvil's  ring,  the  measured  beat  of 
flails, 

The  sweep  of  scythes,  the  reaper'i 
whistled  tune, 

Answering  the  summons  of  the  bells  of 
noon, 


THE  PANORAMA. 


177 


The   woodman's    hail    along    the  river 

shores, 
The  steamboat's  signal,  and  the  dip  of 

oars,  — 

Slowly  the  curtain  rose  from  off  a  land 
Fair  as  God's  garden.     Broad  on  either 

hand 
The  golden  wheat-fields  glimmered  in 

the  sun, 
And   the   tall   maize   its   yellow  tassels 

spun. 
Smooth  highways   set  with  hedge-rows 

living  green, 
With   steepled    towns   through   shaded 

vistas  seen, 
The  school-house   murmuring  with  its 

hive-like  swarm, 

The  brook-bank  whitening  in  the  grist 
mill's  storm, 
The  painted  farm-house  shining  through 

the  leaves 

Of  fruited  orchards  bending  at  its  eaves, 
Where  live  again,  around  the  Western 

hearth, 
The  homely    old-time    virtues    of   the 

North  ; 
Where  the  blithe  housewife  rises   with 

the  day, 
And  well-paid  labor  counts  his  task  a 

play. 

And,  grateful  tokens  of  a  Bible  free, 
And  the  free  Gospel  of  Humanity, 
Of  diverse  sects  and  differing  names  the 

shrines, 

One  in  their  faith,  whate'er  their  out 
ward  signs, 
Like  varying  strophes  of  the  same  sweet 

hymn 
From  many  a  prairie's  swell  and  river's 

brim, 
A  thousand  church-spires  sanctify  the 

air 
Of  the  calm  Sabbath,  with  their  sign  of 

prayer. 

Like  sudden  nightfall  over  bloom  and 

green 
The  curtain  dropped  :   and,  momently, 

between 
The  clank  of   fetter  and  the  crack  of 

thong, 
Half  sob,    half  laughter,    music   swept 

along,  — 
A  strange  refrain,  whose  idle  words  and 

low, 
Like  drunken  mourners,  kept  the  time 

of  woe  ; 

IS, 


As  if  the  revellers  at  a  masquerade 
Heard  in  the  distance  funeral  marches 

played. 
Such  music,  dashing  all  his  smiles  with 

tears, 
The  thoughtful  voyager  on  Poiichartrain 

hears, 
Where,  through   the   noonday   dusk  of 

wooded  shores 

The  negro  boatman,  singing  to  his  oars, 
With  a  wild  pathos  borrowed  of  his 

wrong 

Redeems  the  jargon  of  his  senseless  song. 
"Look,"    said   the    Showman,   sternly, 

as  he  rolled 
His   curtain  upward ;    "  Fate's  reverse 

behold  ! " 

A  village  straggling  in  loose  disarray 
Of  vulgar  newness,  premature  decay  ; 
A  tavern,  crazy  with  its  whiskey  brawls, 
With  "  Slaves  at  Auction!"  garnishing 

its  walls. 

Without,  surrounded  by  a  motley  crowd, 
The    shrewd-eyed    salesman,    garrulous 

and  loud, 

A  squire  or  colonel  in  his  pride  of  place, 
Known   at  free  fights,  the  caucus,  and 

the  race, 
Prompt  to  proclaim  his  honor  without 

blot, 
And  silence   doubters  with  a  ten-pace 

shot, 

Mingling  the  negro-driving  bully's  rant 
With  pious  phrase  and  democratic  cant, 
Yet  never  scrupling,  with  a  filthy  jest, 
To   sell   the   infant  from  its    mother's 

breast, 
Break  through  all  ties  of  wedlock,  home, 

and  kin, 

Yield    shrinking  girlhood   up   to  gray- 
beard  sin  ; 

Sell  all  the  virtues  with  his  human  stock, 
The   Christian  graces  on  his    auction- 
block, 
And  coolly  count  on  shrewdest  bargains 

driven 

In  hearts  regenerate,  and  in  souls  for 
given  ! 

Look  once  again  !     The  moving  can 
vas  shows 

A  slave  plantation's  slovenly  repose, 
Where,    in  rude   cabins  rotting  midst 

their  weeds, 

The  human  chattel  eats,  and  sleeps,  and 
breeds ; 


178 


THE  PANORAMA. 


And,  held  a  brute,  in  practice,  as  in  law, 

Becomes  in  fact  the  thing  he  's  taken  for. 

There,  early  summoned  to  the  hemp  and 
corn, 

The  nursing  mother  leaves  her  child 
new-born  ; 

There  haggard  sickness,  weak  and 
deathly  faint, 

Crawls  to  his  task,  and  fears  to  make 
complaint ; 

And  sad-eyed  Kachels,  childless  in  de 
cay, 

Weep  for  their  lost  ones  sold  and  torn 
away  ! 

Of  ampler  size  the  master's  dwelling 
stands, 

In  shabby  keeping  with  his  half-tilled 
lands,  — 

The  gates  unhinged,  the  yard  with  weeds 
unclean, 

The  cracked  veranda  with  a  tipsy  lean. 

Without,  loose-scattered  like  a  wreck 
adrift, 

Signs  of  misrule  and  tokens  of  un  thrift ; 

Within,  profusion  to  discomfort  joined, 

The  listless  body  and  the  vacant  mind  ; 

The  fear,  the  hate,  the  theft  and  false 
hood,  born 

In  menial  hearts  of  toil,  and  stripes,  and 
scorn  ! 

There,  all  the  vices,  which,  like  birds 
obscene, 

Batten  on  slavery  loathsome  and  un 
clean, 

From  the  foul  kitchen  to  the  parlor  rise, 

Pollute  the  nursery  where  the  child-heir 
lies, 

Taint  infant  lips  beyond  all  after  cure, 

With  the  fell  poison  of  a  breast  impure  ; 

Touch  boyhood's  passions  with  the 
breath  of  flame, 

From  girlhood's  instincts  steal  the  blush 
of  shame. 

So  swells,  from  low  to  high,  from  weak 
to  strong, 

The  tragic  chorus  of  the  baleful  wrong  ; 

Guilty  or  guiltless,  all  within  its  range 

Feel  the  blind  justice  of  its  sure  revenge. 

Still  scenes  like  these  the    moving 

chart  reveals. 

Up  the  long  western  steppes  the  blight 
ing  steals  ; 

Down  the  Pacific  slope  the  evil  Fate 
Glides  like  a  shadow  to  the  Golden  Gate  : 
From   sea   to   sea  the    drear   eclipse   is 
thrown, 


From  sea  to   sea  the  Mauvaises  Tcrres 

have  grown, 
A  belt  of  curses  on  the  New  World's 

zone  ! 

The   curtain  fell.     All   drew   a  freer 

breath, 
As  men  are  wont  to  do  when  mournfu\ 

death 

Is  covered  from  their  sight.     The  Show 
man  stood 

With  drooping  brow  in  sorrow's  attitude 
One  moment,  then  with  sudden  gesture 

shook 
His  loose  hair   back,  and   with  the  air 

and  look 

Of  one  who  felt,  beyond  the  narrow  stage 
And  listening  group,  the  presence  of  the 

age, 
And  heard  the  footsteps  of  the  things  to 

be, 
Poured  out  his  soul  in  earnest  words  and 

free. 

"  0  friends  !"  he  said,  "in  this  poor 

trick  of  paint 
You  see  the  semblance,  incomplete  and 

faint, 

Of  the  two-fronted  Future,  which,  to 
day, 
Stands  dim  and  silent,  waiting  in  your 

way. 
To-day,  your   servant,  subject   to   your 

will  ; 

To-morrow,  master,  or  for  good  or  ill. 
If  the  dark  face  of  Slavery  on  you  turns, 
If  the  mad  curse  its  paper  barrier  spurns, 
If  the  world  granary  of  the  West  is  made 
The  last  foul  market  of  the  slaver's  trade, 
Why  rail  at  fate  ?  The  mischief  is  your 

own. 

Why  hate  your  neighbor  ?     Blame  your 
selves  alone  ! 

"  Men  of  the  North  !     The  South  you 

charge  with  wrong 
Is   weak  and  poor,  while   you  are  rich 

and  strong. 

If  questions,  — idle  and  absurd  as  those 
The  old-time  monks  and  Paduan  doctors 

chose,  — 
Mere   ghosts   of  questions,  tariffs,  and 

dead  banks, 
And    scarecrow    pontiffs,   never    broke 

your  ranks, 
Your  thews  united  could,  at  once,  roll 

back 


THE  PANOKAMA. 


179 


The  jostled  nation  to  its  primal  track. 
Nay,  were  you  simply  steadfast,  manly, 

just, 

True  to  the  faith  your  fathers  left  in  trust, 
If  stainless  honor  outweighed  in  your 

scale 

A  codfish  quintal  or  a  factory  "bale, 
Full  many  a  noble  heart,  (and  such  remain 
In  all  the  South,  like  Lot  in  Siddim's 

plain, 
Who  watch  and  wait,    and  from  the 

wrong's  control 
Keep  white  and  pure  their  chastity  of 

soul,) 

Now  sick  to  loathing  of  your  weak  com 
plaints, 
Your  tricks  as  sinners,  and  your  prayers 

as  saints, 
Would  half-way  meet  the  frankness  of 

your  tone, 
And  feel  their  pulses  beating  with  your 

own. 

"The  North!  the  South!  no  geo 
graphic  line 

Can  fix  the  boundary  or  the  point  define, 

Since  each  with  each  so  closely  inter- 
blends, 

Where  Slavery  rises,  and  where  Freedom 
ends. 

Beneath  your  rocks  the  roots,  far-reach 
ing,  hide 

Of  the  fell  Upas  on  the  Southern  side  ; 

The  tree  whose  branches  in  your  north- 
winds  wave 

Dropped  its  young  blossoms  on  Mount 
Vernon's  grave  ; 

The  nursling  growth  of  Monticello's  crest 

Is  now  the  glory  of  the  free  Northwest ; 

To  the  wise  maxims  of  her  olden  school 

Virginia  listened  from  thy  lips,  Rantoul ; 

Seward's  words  of  power,  and  Sumner's 
fresh  renown, 

Flow  from  the  pen  that  Jefferson  laid 
down  ! 

And  when,  at  length,  her  years  of  mad 
ness  o'er, 

Like  the  crowned  grazer  on  Euphrates' 
shore, 

From  her  long  lapse  to  savagery,  her 
mouth 

Bitter  with  baneful  herbage,  turns  the 
South, 

Resumes  her  old  attire,  and  seeks  to 
smooth 

Her  unkempt  tresses  at  the  glass  of  truth, 

Her  early  faith  shall  find  a  tongue  again, 


New  Wythes  and  Pinckneys  swell  that 
old  refrain, 

Her  sons  with  yours  renew  the  ancient 
pact, 

The  myth  of  Union  prove  at  last  a  fact  ! 

Then,  if  one  murmur  mars  the  wide  con 
tent, 

Some  Northern  lip  will  drawl  the  last 
dissent, 

Some  Union-saving  patriot  of  your  own 

Lament  to  find  his  occupation  gone. 

"Grant  that  the  North's  insulted, 
scorned,  betrayed, 

O'erreached  in  bargains  with  her  neigh 
bor  made, 

When  selfish  thrift  and  party  held  the 
scales 

For  peddling  dicker,  not  for  honest 
sales,  — 

Whom  shall  we  strike  ?  Who  most  de 
serves  our  blame  ? 

The  braggart  Southron,  open  in  his 
aim, 

And  bold  as  wicked,  crashing  straight 
through  all 

That  bars  his  purpose,  like  a  cannon-ball  ? 

Or  the  mean  traitor,  breathing  northern 
air, 

With  nasal  speech  and  puritanic  hair, 

Whose  cant  the  loss  of  principle  survives, 

As  the  mud-turtle  e'en  its  head  outlives  ; 

Who,  caught,  chin-buried  in  some  foul 
offence, 

Puts  on  a  look  of  injured  innocence, 

And  consecrates  his  baseness  to  the  cause 

Of  constitution,  union,  and  the  laws  ? 

' '  Praise  to  the  place-man  who  can  hold 

aloof 
His  still  unpurchased  manhood,  ofiice- 

proof  ; 

Who  on  his  round  of  duty  walks  erect, 
And  leaves  it  only  rich  in  self-respect,  — • 
As  MORE  maintained  his  virtue's  lofty 

port 
In  the  Eighth  Henry's  base  and  bloody 

court. 
But,  if  exceptions  here   and  there  are 

found, 
Who   tread   thus   safely   on   enchanted 

ground, 

The  normal  tj^pe,  the  fitting  symbol  still 
Of  those  who  fatten  at  the  public  mill, 
Is  the  chained  dog  beside  his  master's 

door, 
Or  CIRCE'S  victim,  feeding  on  all  four  J 


180 


THE   PANOKAMA. 


"  Give  me  the  heroes  who,  at  tuck  of 

drum, 

Salute  thy  staff,  immortal  Quattlebum  ! 
Or  they  who,  doubly  armed  with  vote 


and  gun, 
Following  thy  lead,  illustrious  Atchison, 


"Such  are  the  men  who,  with  instinc- 

tive  dread, 

Whenever  Freedom  lifts  her  drooping 
head, 


Make   prophet  -  tripods   of    their  office- 
_      .          .  stools, 

Their  drunken  franchise  shift  from  scene    And  scare  the  nurseries  and  the  village 
to  scene. 


As  tile-beard  Jourdan  did  his  guillo 

tine  !  — 
Bather  than  him  who,  born  beneath  our 

skies, 
To  Slavery's  hand  its  supplest  tool  sup 

plies,  — 

The  party  felon  whose  unblushing  face 
Looks  from  the  pillory  of  his  bribe  of 

place, 

And  coolly  makes  a  merit  of  disgrace,  — 
Points  to  the  footmarks  of  indignant 

scorn, 
Shows  the  deep  scars  of  satire's  tossing 

horn  ; 

And  passes  to  his  credit  side  the  sum 
Of  all  that  makes  a  scoundrel's  martyr 

dom  ! 

"  Bane  of  the  North,  its  canker  and 

its  moth  !  — 
These  modern  Esaus,  bartering  rights  for 

broth  ! 
Taxing  our  justice,   with  their  double 

claim, 
As  fools  for  pity,   and  as  knaves  for 

blame  ; 
Who,   urged  by  party,   sect,   or  trade, 

within 
The  fell  embrace  of  Slavery's  sphere  of 

sin, 

Part  at  the  outset  with  their  moral  sense, 
The  watchful  angel  set  for  Truth's  de 

fence  ; 
Confound  all   contrasts,   good  and  ill  ; 

reverse 
The  poles  of  life,  its  blessing  and  its 

curse  ; 
And  lose  thenceforth  from  their  perverted 

sight 
The  eternal  difference  'twixt  the  wrong 

and  right  ; 

To  them  the  Law  is  but  the  iron  span 
That  girds  the  ankles  of  imbmted  man  ; 
To  them  the  Gospel  has  no  higher  aim 
Than   simple  sanction   of  the   master's 

claim, 
Dragged  in  the  slime  of  Slavery's  loath 

some  trail, 
Like  Chalier's  Bible  at  his  ass's  tail  ! 


schools 

With  dire  presage  of  ruin  grim  and  great, 
A  broken  Union  and  a  foundered  State  ! 
Such  are  the  patriots,  self-bound  to  the 

stake 

Of  office,  martyrs  for  their  country's  sake  : 
Who  fill  themselves  the  hungry  jaws  of 

Fate, 
And  by  their  loss  of  manhood  save  the 

State. 
In  the  wide  gulf  themselves  like  Curtius 

throw, 

And  test  the  virtues  of  cohesive  dough  ; 
As  tropic  monkeys,  linking  heads  and 

tails, 
Bridge  o'er  some  torrent  of  Ecuador's 

vales  ! 

*  '  Such  are  the  men  who  in  your  church 

es  rave 
To   swearing-point,   at  mention  of  the 

slave  ! 

When  some  poor  parson,  haply  unawares, 
Stammers  of  freedom  in  his  timid  prayers  ; 
Who,  if  some  foot-sore  negro  through  the 

town 
Steals  northward,  volunteer  to  hunt  him 

down. 

Or,  if  some  neighbor,  flying  from  disease, 
Courts  the  mild  balsam  of  the  Southern 

breeze, 
With  hue  and  cry  pursue  him  on  hi* 

track, 
And  write  Free-soiler  on  the  poor  man's 

back. 
Such  are  the  men  who  leave  the  pedler's 

cart, 
While  faring  South,  to  learn  the  driver's 

art, 
Or,  in  white  neckcloth,  soothe  with  pious 

aim 
The  graceful   sorrows  of  some  languid 

darne, 
Who,  from  the  wreck  of  her  bereavement, 


The  double  charm  of  widowhood   and 

slaves  !  — 
Pliant  and  apt,  they  lose  no  chance  ta 

show 
To  what  base  depths  apostasy  can  go  ; 


THE   PANORAMA. 


181 


Outdo  the  natives  in  their  readiness 
To  roast  a  negro,  or  to  mob  a  press  ; 
Poise  a  tarred  schoolmate  on  the  lynch- 

er's  rail, 
Or  make  a  bonfire  of  their  birthplace 

mail  ! 

"  So  some  poor  wretch,  whose  lips  no 

longer  bear 

The  sacred  burden  of  his  mother's  prayer, 
By  fear  impelled,  or  lust  of  gold  enticed, 
Turns  to  the  Crescent  from  the  Cross  of 

Christ, 

And,  over-acting  in  superfluous  zeal, 
Crawls  prostrate  where  the  faithful  only 

kneel, 
Out-howls  the  Dervish,  hugs  his  rags  to 

court 

The  squalid  Santon's  sanctity  of  dirt  ; 
And,  when  beneath  the  city  gateway's 

span 

Files  slow  and  long  the  Meccan  caravan, 
And  through  its  midst,  pursued  by  Islam's 

prayers, 
The  prophet's  Word  some  favored  camel 

bears, 

The   marked  apostate  has  his  place  as 
signed 

The  Koran-bearer's  sacred  rump  behind, 
With  brush  and  pitcher  following,  grave 

and  mute, 
In  meek  attendance  on  the  holy  brute  ! 

"  Men  of  the  North  !    beneath  your 

very  eyes, 
By  hearth  and  home,  your  real  danger 

lies. 
Still  day  by  day  some  hold  of  freedom 

falls, 
Through  home-bred  traitors  fed  within 

its  wralls.  — 
Men  whom  yourselves  with  vote  and 

purse  sustain, 

At  posts  of  honor,  influence,  and  gain  ; 
The  right  of  Slavery  to  your  sons  to 

teach, 

And  "  South-side  "  Gospels  in  your  pul 
pits  preach, 

Transfix  the  Law  to  ancient  freedom  dear 
On  the  sharp  point  of  her  subverted  spear, 
And  imitate  upon  her  cushion  plump 
The  mad  Missourian  lynching  from  his 

stump  ; 

Or,  in  your  name,  upon  the  Senate's  floor 
Yield  up  to  Slavery  all  it  asks,  and  more  ; 
And,  ere  your  dull  eyes  open  to  the 

cheat, 


Sell  your  old  homestead  underneath  your 

feet  ! 
While  such  as  these  your  loftiest  outlooks 

hold, 
While  truth  and  conscience  with  your 

wares  are  sold, 
While    grave-browed    merchants    band 

themselves  to  aid 
An  annual  man-hunt  for  their  Southern 

trade, 
What  moral  power  within  your  grasp 

remains 
To    stay  the    mischief  on    Nebraska's 

plains  ?  — 
High  as  the  tides  of  generous  impulse 

flow, 

As  far  rolls  back  the  selfish  undertow  ; 
And   all   your  brave  resolves,    though 

aimed  as  true 

As  the  horse-pistol  Balmawhapple  drew, 
To  Slavery's  bastions  lend  as  slight  a 

shock 
As  the  poor  trooper's  shot  to  Stirling 

rock  ! 

"Yet,  while  the  need  of  Freedom's 
cause  demands 

The  earnest  efforts  of  your  hearts  and 
hands, 

Urged  by  all  motives  that  can  prompt 
the  heart 

To  prayer  and  toil  and  manhood's  man 
liest  part ; 

Though  to  the  soul's  deep  tocsin  Nature 
joins 

The  warning  whisper  of  her  Orphic  pines, 

The  north-wind's  anger,  and  the  south- 
wind's  sigh, 

The  midnight  sword-dance  of  the  north 
ern  sky, 

And,  to  the  ear  that  bends  above  the 
sod 

Of  the  green  grave-mounds  in  the  Fields 
of  God, 

In  IOWT,  deep  murmurs  of  rebuke  or  cheer, 

The  land's  dead  fathers  speak  their  hope 
or  fear, 

Yet  let  not  Passion  wrest  from  Reason's 
hand 

The  guiding  rein  and  symbol  of  com 
mand. 

Blame  not  the  caution  proffering  to  your 
zeal 

A  well-meant  drag  upon  its  hurrying 
wheel  ; 

Nor  chide  the  man  whose  honest  doubt 
extends 


132 


THE   PANORAMA. 


To  the  means  only,  not  the  righteous 

ends  ; 
Nor  fail  to  weigh  the  scruples  and  the 

fears 

Of  milder  natures  and  serener  years. 
In  the  long  strife  with  evil  which  began 
With  the  first  lapse  of  new-created  man, 
Wisely  and  well  has  Providence  assigned 
To  each  his  part,  —  some  forward,  some 

behind  ; 
And  they,  too,  serve  who  temper  and 

restrain 
The  o'erwarm  heart  that  sets  on  fire  the 

brain. 

True  to  yourselves,  feed  Freedom's  altar- 
flame 
With  what  you  have  ;  let  others  do  the 

same. 
Spare  timid  doubters  ;  set  like  flint  your 

face 
Against  the  self-sold  knaves  of  gain  and 

place  : 

Pity  the  weak  ;  but  with  unsparing  hand 
Cast   out   the   traitors   who    infest   the 

land,  — 

From  bar,  press,  pulpit,  cast  them  every 
where, 

By  dint  of  fasting,  if  you  fail  by  prayer. 
And  in  their  place  bring  men  of  antique 

mould, 
Like  the  grave  fathers  of  your  Age  of 

Gold,  — 
Statesmen  like  those  who   sought  the 

primal  fount 
Of  righteous  law,   the  Sermon  on  the 

Mount  ; 
Lawyers  who  prize,  like  Quincy,  (to  our 

day 
Still  spared,  Heaven  bless  him  !)  honor 

more  than  pay, 
And  Christian  jurists,  starry-pure,  like 

Jay; 
Preachers  like  Woolman,  or  like  them 

who  bore 

The  faith  of  Wesley  to  our  Western  shore, 
And  held  no  convert  genuine  till  he  broke 
Alike  his  servants'  and  the  Devil's  yoke  ; 
And  priests  like  him  who  Newport's  mar 
ket  trod, 
And  o'er  its  slave-ships  shook  the  bolts 

of  God  ! 
80  shall  your  power,  with  a  wise  prudence 

used, 
Strong    but    forbearing,    firm    but   not 

abused, 

In  kindly  keeping  with  the  good  of  all, 
The  nobler  maxims  of  the  past  recall, 


Her  natural  home-born  right  to  Freedom 

give, 
And  leave  her  foe  his  robber-right,  —  to 

live. 
Live,  as  the  snake  does  in  his  noisome 

fen  ! 
Live,  as  the  wolf  does  in  his  bone-strewn 

den  ! 
Live,  clothed  with  cursing  like  a  robe  of 

flame, 
The     focal     point     of    million-fingered 

shame  ! 
Live,  till  the  Southron,  wlio,  with  all  his 

faults, 

Has   manly  instincts,  in  his  pride  re 
volts, 
Dashes  from  off'  him,    midst   the   glad 

world's  cheers, 
The  hideous  nightmare  of  his  dream  of 

years, 
And  lifts,  self-prompted,  with  his  own 

right  hand, 
The  vile  encumbrance  from  his  glorious 

land  ! 

"  So,  wheresoe'er   our   destiny  sends 

forth 
Its   widening   circles   to   the   South   or 

North, 
Where'er   our   banner    flaunts   beneath 

the  stars 
Its  mimic  splendors  and  its  cloudlike 

bars, 
There  shall  Free  Labor's  hardy  children 

stand 

The  equal  sovereigns  of  a  slaveless  land. 
And  when  at  last  the  hunted  bison  tires, 
And  dies  o'ertaken  by  the  squatter's 

fires  ; 
And  westward,  wave  on  wave,  the  living 

flood 
Breaks   on   the    snow-line   of    majestic 

Hood  ; 
And  lonely  Shasta  listening  hears  the 

tread 
Of  Europe's   fair-haired   children,  Hes- 

per-led  ; 
And,    gazing    downward    through    his 

hoar-locks,  sees 

The  tawny  Asian  climb  his  giant  knees, 
The  Eastern  sea  shall  hush  his  waves  to 

hear 
Pacific's     surf-beat     answer    Freedom's 

cheer, 
And  one  long  rolling  fire  of  triumph 

run 
Between  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset  gun  !  * 


SUMMEK  BY  THE  LAKESIDE. 


183 


My  task  is  done.     The  Showman  and 

his  show, 
Themselves  "but  shadows,  into  shadows 

And,  if  no  song  of  idlesse  I  have  sung, 
Nor   tints    of   beauty   on    the    canvas 

flung,  - 
If  the   harsh   numbers  grate  on  tender 

ears, 

And  the  rough  picture  overwrought  ap 
pears,  — 
With  deeper  coloring,    with  a   sterner 

blast, 

Before  my  soul  a  voice  and  vision  passed, 
Such  as  might  Milton's  jarring   trump 

require, 
Or  glooms  of  Dante  fringed  with  lurid 

fire. 
0,  not  of  choice,  for  themes  of  public 

wrong 
I  leave  the  green  and  pleasant  paths  of 

song,  — 
The  mild,  sweet  words  which  soften  and 

adorn, 
For  griding  taunt  and  bitter  laugh  of 

scorn. 
More  dear  to  me  some  song  of  private 

worth, 


Some  homely  idyl  of  my  native  North, 
Some  summer    pastoral  of    her  inland 

vales 
Or,  grim  and  weird,  her  winter  fireside 

tales 
Haunted    by    ghosts     of    unreturning 

sails,  — 
Lost  barks  at  parting  hung  from  stem 

to  helm 
With  prayers   of  love  like  dreams  on 


Nor  private  grief  nor  malice  holds  my 

pen  ; 

I  owe  but  kindness  to  my  fellow-men  ; 
And,  South  or  North,  wherever  hearts 

of  prayer 
Their  woes  and  weakness  to  our  Father 

bear, 
Wherever   fruits  of  Christian   love  are 

found 

In  holy  lives,  to  me  is  holy  ground. 
But  the  time  passes.     It  were  vain  to 

crave 
A  late    indulgence.      What    I    had    I 

gave. 

Forget  the  poet,  but  his  warning  heed, 
And  shame   his  poor  word  with  your 


nobler  d 


.s  poo 
.eed. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE. 

I.  NOON. 

WHITE  clouds,    whose    shadows  haunt 

the  deej), 

Light  mists,  whose  soft  embraces  keep 
The  sunshine  on  the  hills  asleep  ! 

0  isles  of  calm  !  —  0  dark,  still  wood  ! 
And  stiller  skies  that  overbrood 
Your  rest  with  deeper  quietude  ! 

0    shapes    and    hues,  dim  beckoning, 

through 

Yon  mountain  gaps,  my  longing  view 
Beyond  the  purple  and  the  blue, 

To  stiller  sea  and  greener  land, 

And  softer  lights  and  airs  more  bland, 

A.nd  skies,  —  the  hollow  of  God's  hand  ! 


Transfused  through   you,    0   mountain 

friends  ! 

With  mine  your  solemn  spirit  blends, 
And  life  no  more  hath  separate  ends. 

I  read  each  misty  mountain  sign, 
I  know  the  voice  of  wave  and  pine, 
And  1  am  yours,  and  ye  are  mine. 

Life's  burdens  fall,  its  discords  cease, 

I  lapse  into  the  glad  release 

Of  Nature's  own  exceeding  peace. 

0,  welcome  calm  of  heart  and  mind  f 
As  falls  yon  fir-tree's  loosened  rind 
To  leave  a  tenderer  growth  behind, 

So  fall  the  weary  years  away  ; 
A  child  again,  my  head  I  lay 
Upon  the  lap  of  this  sweet  day. 


184 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


This  western  wind  hath  Lethean  powers, 
Yon  noonday  cloud  nepenthe  showers, 
The  lake  is  white  with  lotus-flowers  ! 

Even  Duty's  voice  is  faint  and  low, 
And     slumberous    Conscience,    waking 

slow, 
Forgets  her  blotted  scroll  to  show. 

The  Shadow  which  pursues  us  all, 
Whose  ever-riearing  steps  appall, 
Whose  voice  we  hear  behind  us  call,  — 

That    Shadow    blends    with    mountain 

gray, 

It  speaks  but  what  the  light  wa'vs  say,  — 
Death  walks  apart  from  Fear  lo-day  ! 

Kocked  on  her  breast,  these  pines  and  1 
Alike  on  Nature's  love  rely  ; 
And  equal  seems  to  live  or  die. 

Assured  that  He  whose  presence  fills 
With  light  the  spaces  of  these  hills 
No  evil  to  his  creatures  wills, 

The  simple  faith  remains,  that  He 
Will  do,  whatever  that  may  be, 
The  best  alike  for  man  and  tree. 

What  mosses  over  one  shall  grow, 
What  light  and  life  the  other  know, 
Unanxious,  leaving  Him  to  show. 

II.   EVENING. 

Yon  mountain's  side  is  black  with  night, 
While,  broad-orbed,  o'er  its  gleaming- 
crown 

The  moon,  slow-rounding  into  sight, 
On  the  hushed  inland  sea  looks  down. 

How  start  to  light  the  clustering  isles, 
Each  silver-hemmed  !     How   sharply 
show 

The  shadows  of  their  rocky  piles, 
And  tree-tops  in  the  wave  below  ! 

How   far   and    strange    the    mountains 

seem, 
Dim-looming  through  the   pale,  still 

light ! 

The  vague,  vast  grouping  of  a  dream, 
They  stretch  into  the  solemn  night. 

Beneath,  lake,  wood,  and  peopled  vale, 
Hushed  by  that  presence  grand  and 
grave, 


Are  silent,  save  the  cricket's  wail, 
And  low  response  of  leaf  and  ware. 

Fair  scenes  !  whereto  the  Day  and  Nighl 
Make  rival  love,  I  leave  ye  soon, 

What  time  before  the  eastern  light 
The  pale  ghost  of  the  setting  rnoon 

Shall  hide  behind  yon  rocky  spines, 
And   the   young  archer,    Mora,  shall 
break 

His  arrows  on  the  mountain  pines, 
And,  golden-sandalled,  walk  the  lake  ! 

Farewell  !  around  this  smiling  bay 
Gay-hearted     Health,     and    Life    in 
bloom, 

With  lighter  steps  than  mine,  may  stray 
In  radiant  summers  yet  to  corne. 

But  none  shall  more  regretful  leave 
These  waters  and  these  hills  than  I  : 

Or,  distant,  fonder  dream  how  eve 
Or  dawn  is  painting  wave  and  sky ; 

How  rising  moons  shine  sad  and  mild 
On  wooded  isle  and  silvering  bay/ 

Or  setting  suns  beyond  the  piled 
And  purple  mountains  lead  the  day  ; 

Nor  laughing  girl,  nor  bearding  boy, 
Nor    full-pulsed   manhood,  lingering 
here, 

Shall  add,  to  life's  abounding  joy, 
The  charmed  repose  to  suffering  dear. 

Still  waits  kind  Nature  to  impart 
Her  choicest  gifts  to  such  as  gain 

An  entrance  to  her  loving  heart 

Through  the  sharp  discipline  of  pain. 

Forever  from  the  Hand  that  takes 
One  blessing  from  us  others  fall  ; 

And,  soon  or  late,  our  Father  makes 
His  perfect  recompense  to  all  ! 

0,  watched  by  Silence  and  the  Night, 
And  folded  in  the  strong  embrace 

Of  the  great  mountains,  with  the  light 
Of  the  sweet  heavens  upon  thy  face, 

Lake  of  the  Northland  !  keep  thy  dowe} 
Of  beauty  still,  and  while  above 

Thy  solemn  mountains  speak  of  power, 
Be  thou  the  mirror  of  God's  love. 


THE  HEEMIT  OF  THE  THEBAID. 


183 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  THEBAID. 

0  STRONG,  upwelling  prayers  of  faith, 
From  inmost  founts  of  life  ye  start,  — 

The  spirit's  pulse,  the  vital  breath 
Of  soul  and  heart  ! 

From  pastoral  toil,  from  traffic's  din, 
Alone,  in  crowds,  at  home,  abroad, 

Unheard  of  man,  ye  enter  in 
The  ear  of  God. 

Ye  brook  no  forced  and  measured  tasks, 
Nor  weary  rote,  nor  formal  chains  ; 

The  simple  heart,  that  freely  asks 
In  love,  obtains. 

For  man  the  living  temple  is  : 
The  mercy-seat  and  cherubim, 

And  all  the  holy  mysteries, 
He  bears  with  him. 

And  most  avails  the  prayer  of  love, 
Which,     wordless,     shapes    itself    in 
deeds, 

4nd  wearies  Heaven  for  naught  above 
Our  common  needs. 

Which  brings  to  God's  all-perfect  will 
That  trust  of  his  undoubting  child 

Whereby  all  seeming  good  and  ill 
Are  reconciled. 

And,  seeking  not  for  special  signs 

Of  favor,  is  content  to  fall 
Within  the  providence  which  shines 

And  rains  on  all. 

Alone,  the  Thebaid  hermit  leaned 
At  noontime  o'er  the  sacred  word. 

Was  it  an  angel  or  a  fiend 
Whose  voice  he  heard  ? 

It  broke  the  desert's  hush  of  awe, 

A  human  utterance,  sweet  and  mild  ; 

ind,  looking  up,  the  hermit  saw 
A  little  child. 

A  child,  with  wonder- widened  eyes, 
O'erawed  and  troubled  by  the  sight 

Of  hot,  red  sands,  arid  brazen  skies, 
And  anchorite. 

"  What  dost  thou  here,  poor  man  ?     No 

shade 

Of  cool,  green  doums,  nor  grass,  nor 
well, 


Nor    corn,    nor    vines."      The    hermit 

said  : 
"With  God  I  dwell. 

"Alone  with  Him  in  this  great  calm, 
I  live  not  by  the  outward  sense  ; 

My  Nile  his  love,  my  sheltering  palm 
His  providence." 

The   child   gazed  round   him.      ' '  Does 
God  live 

Here  only  ?  —  where  the  desert's  rim 
Is  green  with  corn,  at  mom  and  eve, 

We  pray  to  Him. 

"  My  brother  tills  beside  the  Nile 
His  little  field  :  beneath  the  leaves 

My  sisters  sit  and  spin  the  while, 
My  mother  weaves. 

"And  when  the  millet's  ripe  heads  fall, 
And  all  the  bean- field  hangs  in  pod, 

My  mother  smiles,  and  says  that  all 
Are  gifts  from  God. 

' '  And  when  to  share  our  evening  meal, 
She  calls  the  stranger  at  the  door, 

She  says  God  fills  the  hands  that  deal 
Food  to  the  poor." 

Adown  the  hermit's  wasted  cheeks 
Glistened  the  flow  of  human  tears  ; 

"Dear   Lord!"    he    said,    "thy   angel 

speaks, 
Thy  servant  hears." 

Within  his  arms  the  child  he  took, 
And   thought  of  home  and  life  with 
men  ; 

And  all  his  pilgrim  feet  forsook 
Returned  again. 

The  palmy  shadows  cool  and  long, 
The  eyes  that  smiled  through  lavish 
locks, 

Home's  cradle-hymn  and  harvest-song, 
And  bleat  of  flocks. 

"  0  child  !  "  he  said,  "  thou  teachest  me 
There  is  no  place  where  God  is  not  ; 

That  love  will  make,  where'er  it  be, 
A  holy  spot." 

He  rose  from  off  the  desert  sand, 
And,  leaning  on  his  staff  of  thorn, 

Went,  with  the  young   child,    hand-in 

hand, 
Like  night  with  morn. 


186 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


They  crossed  the  desert's  burning  line, 
And   heard   the   palm-tree's   rustling 
fan, 

The  Nile-bird's  cry,  the  low  of  kine, 
And  voice  of  man. 

Unquestioning,  his  childish  guide 
He  followed  as  the  small  hand  led 

To  where  a  woman,  gentle-eyed, 
Her  distaff  fed. 

She  rose,  she  clasped  her  truant  boy, 
She  thanked   the   stranger   with   her 
eyes. 

The  hermit  gazed  in  doubt  and  joy 
And  dumb  surprise. 

And  lo  !  —  with  sudden  warmth  and 
light 

A  tender  memory  thrilled  his  frame  ; 
New-born,  the  world-lost  anchorite 

A  man  became. 

"  0  sister  of  El  Zara's  race, 

Behold  me  !  —  had  we  not  one  moth 
er  ?  " 
She  gazed  into  the  stranger's  face  ;  — 

"  Thou  art  iny  brother  ?  " 

'  0  kin  of  blood !  —  Thy  life  of  use 

And  patient  trust  is  more  than  mine  ; 
And  wiser  than  the  gray  recluse 
This  child  of  thine. 

"  For,  taught  of  him  whom  God  hath 
sent, 

That  toil  is  praise,  and  love  is  prayer, 
I  come,  life's  cares  and  pains  content 

With  thee  to  share." 

Even  as  his  foot  the  threshold  crossed, 
The  hermit's  better  life  began  ; 

Its  holiest  saint  the  Thebaid  lost, 
And  found  a  man  ! 


BURNS. 

ON     RECEIVING    A    SPRIG     OF     HEATHER 
IN   BLOSSOM. 

No  more  these  simple  flowers  belong 
To  Scottish  maid  and  lover  ; 

Sown  in  the  common  soil  of  song, 
They  bloom  the  wide  world  over, 

In  smiles  and  tears,  in  sun  and  showers, 
The  minstrel  and  the  heather, 


The  deathless  singer  and  the  flowers 
He  sang  of  live  together. 

Wild  heather-bells  and  Robert  Burng  ! 

The  moorland  flower  and  peasant  ! 
How,  at  their  mention,  memory  turns 

Her  pages  old  and  pleasant  ! 

The  gray  sky  wears  again  its  gold 

And  purple  of  adorning, 
And  manhood's  noonday  shadows  hold 

The  dews  of  boyhood's  morning. 

The   dews   that   washed   the   dust   and 

soil 

From  oft'  the  wings  of  pleasure, 
The  sky,  that   flecked   the   ground   of 

toil 
With  golden  threads  of  leisure. 

I  call  to  mind  the  summer  day, 

The  early  harvest  mowing, 
The  sky  with  sun  and  clouds  at  play, 

And  flowers  with  breezes  blowing. 

I  hear  the  blackbird  in  the  corn, 

The  locust  in  the  haying  ; 
And,  like  the  fabled  hunter's  horn, 

Old  tunes  my  heart  is  playing. 

How  oft  that  day,  with  fond  delay, 
I  sought  the  maple's  shadow, 

And  sang  with  Burns  the  hours  away, 
Forgetful  of  the  meadow  ! 

Bees   hummed,    birds    twittered,    over 
head 

I  heard  the  squirrels  leaping, 
The  good  dog  listened  while  I  read, 

And  wagged  his  tail  in  keeping. 

I  watched  him  while  in  sportive  mood 
I  read  "  Tlie  Twa  Dogs'  "  story, 

And  half  believed  he  understood 
The  poet's  allegory. 

Sweet  day,  sweet  songs  !  —  The  golden 

hours 

Grew  brighter  for  that  singing, 
From    brook    and    bird    and    meadow 

flowers 
A  dearer  welcome  bringing. 

New  light  on  home-seen  Nature  beamed, 

New  glory  over  Woman  ; 
And  daily  life  and  duty  seemed 

No  longer  poor  and  common. 


WILLIAM  FORSTER. 


187 


I  woke  to  find  the  simple  truth 

Of  fact  and  feeling  better 
Than  all  the  dreams  that  held  my  youth 

A  still  repining  debtor  : 

That  Nature  gives  her  handmaid,  Art, 
The  themes  of  sweet  discoursing  ; 

The  tender  idyls  of  the  heart 
In  every  tongue  rehearsing. 

Why  dream  of  lands  of  gold  and  pearl, 

Of  loving  knight  and  lady, 
When  farmer  boy  and  barefoot  girl 

Were  wandering  there  already  ? 

I  saw  through  all  familiar  things 

The  romance  underlying  ; 
The  joys  and  griefs  that  plume  the  wings 

Of  Fancy  skyward  flying. 

I  saw  the  same  blithe  day  return, 
The  same  sweet  fall  of  even, 

That  rose  on  wooded  Craigie-burn, 
And  sank  on  crystal  Devon. 

]  matched  with  Scotland's  heathery  hills 
The  sweetbrier  and  the  clover  ; 

With  Ayr  and  Boon,  my  native  rills, 
Their  wood-hymns  chanting  over. 

O'er  rank  and  pomp,  as  he  had  seen, 

I  saw  the  Man  uprising  ; 
No  longer  common  or  unclean, 

The  child  of  God's  baptizing  ! 

With  clearer  eyes  I  saw  the  worth 

Of  life  among  the  lowly  ; 
The  Bible  at  his  Cotter's  hearth 

Had  made  my  own  more  holy. 

And  if  at  times  an  evil  strain, 

To  lawless  love  appealing, 
Broke  in  upon  the  sweet  refrain 

Of  pure  and  healthful  feeling, 

It  died  upon  the  eye  and  ear, 

No  inward  answer  gaining  ; 
No  heart  had  I  to  see  or  hear 

The  discord  and  the  staining. 

Let  those  who  never  erred  forget 
His  worth,  in  vain  bewailings  ; 

Sweet  Soul  of  Song  !  —  I  own  my  debt 
Uncanoelled  t>y  his  failings  ! 

Lament  who  will  the  ribald  line 
Which  tells  his  lapse  from  duty 


How  kissed  the  maddening  lips  of  wine 
Or  wanton  ones  of  beauty  ; 

But  think,   while  falls  that  shade  be- 
tween 

The  erring  one  and  Heaven, 
That  he  who  loved  like  Magdalen, 

Like  her  may  be  forgiven. 

Not    his  the   song    whose    thunderous, 
chime 

Eternal  echoes  render,  — 
The  mournful  Tuscan's  haunted  rhyme, 

And  Milton's  starry  splendor  ! 

But  who  his  human  heart  has  laid 

To  Nature's  bosom  nearer  ? 
Who  sweetened  toil  like  him,  or  paid 

To  love  a  tribute  dearer  ? 

Through  all  his  tuneful  art,  how  strong 

The  human  feeling  gushes  ! 
The  very  moonlight  of  his  song 

Is  warm  with  smiles  and  blushes  ! 

Give  lettered  pomp  to  teeth  of  Time, 
So  "  Bonnie.  Doon  "  but  tarry  ; 

Blot  out  the  Epic's  stately  rhyme, 
But  spare  his  Highland  Mary  1 


WILLIAM   FORSTER.6! 

THE  years  are  many  since  his  hand 

Was  laid  upon  my  head, 
Too  weak  and  young  to  understand 

The  serious  words  he  said. 

Yet  often  now  the  good  man's  look 

Before  me  seems  to  swim, 
As  if  some  inward  feeling  took 

The  outward  guise  of  him. 

As  if,  in  passion's  heated  war, 
Or  near  temptation's  charm, 

Through  him  the  low-voiced  monitor 
Forewarned  me  of  the  harm. 

Stranger  and  pilgrim  !  —  from  that  day 

Of  meeting,  first  and  last, 
Wherever  Duty's  pathway  lay, 

His  reverent  steps  have  passed. 

The  poor  to  feed,  the  lost  to  seek, 

To  proffer  life  to  death, 
Hope  to  the  erring,  —  to  the  weak 

The  strength  of  his  own  faith. 


188 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


To  plead  the  captive's  right  ;  remove 
The  sting  of  hate  from  Law  ; 

And  soften  in  the  fire  of  love 
The  hardened  steel  of  War. 

He  walked  the  dark  world,  in  the  mild, 

Still  guidance  of  the  Light  ; 
In  tearful  tenderness  a  child, 

A  strong  man  in  the  right. 

From  what  great  perils,  on  his  way, 
He  found,  in  prayer,  release  ; 

Through  what  abysmal  shadows  lay 
His  pathway  unto  peace, 

God  knoweth  :  we  could  only  see 
The  tranquil  strength  he  gained  ; 

The  bondage  lost  in  liberty, 
The  fear  in  love  unfeigned. 

And  I,  —  my  youthful  fancies  grown 

The  habit  of  the  man, 
Whose  field  of  life  by  angels  sown 

The  wilding  vines  o'erran,  — 

Low  bowed  in  silent  gratitude, 

My  manhood's  heart  enjoys 
That  reverence  for  the  pure  and  good 

Which  blessed  the  dreaming  boy's. 

Still  shines  the  light  of  holy  lives 
Like  star-beams  over  doubt  ; 

Each  sainted  memory,  Christlike,  drives 
Some  dark  possession  out. 

0  friend  !  0  brother  !  not  in  vain 

Thy  life  so  calm  and  true, 
The  silver  dropping  of  the  rain, 

The  fall  of  summer  dew  ! 

How  many  burdened  hearts  have  prayed 
Their  lives  like  thine  might  be  ! 

But  more  shall  pray  henceforth  for  aid 
To  lay  them  down  like  thee. 

With  weary  hand,  yet  steadfast  will, 

In  old  age  as  in  youth, 
Thy  Master  found  thee  sowing  still 

The  good  seed  of  his  truth. 

As  on  thy  task -field  closed  the  day 

In  golden-skied  decline, 
His  angel  met  thee  on  the  way, 

And  lent  his  arm  to  thine. 

Vhy  latest  care  for  man,  —  thy  last 
Of  earthly  thought  a  prayer,  — 


O,  who  thy  mantle,  backward  cast, 
Is  worthy  now  to  wear  ? 

Methinks  the  mound  which  marks  trry 
bed 

Might  bless  our  land  and  save, 
As  rose,  of  old,  to  life  the  dead 

Who  touched  the  prophet's  grave  ! 


RANTOUL.62 

ONE  day,  along  the  electric  wire 
His  manly  word  for  Freedom  sped  ; 

We  came  next  morn  :  that  tongue  of  fin 
Said  only,  "  He  who  spake  is  dead  !  ' 

Dead  !  while  his  voice  was  living  yet, 
In  echoes  round  the  pillared  dome  ! 

Dead  !  while  his  blotted  page  lay  wet 
With  themes   of  state   and   loves  oi 
home  ! 

Dead  !  in  that  crowning  grace  of  time, 
That  triumph  of  life's  zenith  hour  ! 

Dead  !  while  we  watched  his  manhood's 

prime 
Break  from  the  slow  bud  into  flower  ! 

Dead  !  he  so  great,  and  strong,  and  wise, 
While  the  mean  thousands  yet  drew 

breath  ; 
How  deepened,  through  that  dread  sur 

prise, 
The  mystery  and  the  awe  of  deatli  ! 

From  the  high  place  whereon  our  votes 
Had  borne  him,  clear,  calm,  earnest 
fell 

His  first  words,  like  the  prelude  notes 
Of  some  great  anthem  yet  to  swell. 

We  seemed  to  see  our  flag  unfurled, 
Our  champion  waiting  in  his  place 

For  the  last  battle  of  the  world,  — 
The  Armageddon  of  the  race. 

Through  him  we   hoped   to   speak   th« 

word 

Which  wins  the  freedom  of  a  land  ; 
And  lift,  for  human  right,  the  sword 
Which  dropped  from  Hampden's  dy 
ing  hand. 


For  he  had  sat  at  Sidney's  feet, 
And    walked    with   Pym  and 
apart  ; 


THE  DREAM  OF  PIO   NONO. 


189 


And,  through  the  centuries,  felt  the  beat 
Of    Freedom's  march  in  Cromwell's 
heart. 

He  knew  the  paths  the  worthies  held, 
Where  England's  best  and  wisest  trod  ; 

And,  lingering,  drank  the  springs  that 

welled 
Beneath  the  touch  of  Milton's  rod. 

No  wild  enthusiast  of  the  right, 

Self- poised  and  clear,  he  showed  alway 

The  coolness  of  his  northern  night, 
The  ripe  repose  of  autumn's  day. 

His  steps  were  slow,  yet  forward  still 
He   pressed   where  others  paused  or 
failed  ; 

The  calm  star  clomb  with  constant  will,  — 
The  restless  meteor  flashed  and  paled  ! 

Skilled  in  its  subtlest  wile,  he  knew 
And  owned  the  higher  ends  of  Law  ; 

Still  rose  majestic  on  his  view 

The  awful  Shape  the  schoolman  saw. 

Her  home  the  heart  of  God  ;  her  voice 
The  choral  harmonies  whereby 

The  stars,  through  all  their  spheres,  re 
joice, 
The  rhythmic  rule  of  earth  and  sky  ! 

We  saw  his  great  powers  misapplied 
To  poor  ambitions  ;  yet,  through  all, 

We  saw  him  take  the  weaker  side, 
And  right  the  wronged,  and  free  the 
thrall. 

Now,  looking  o'er  the  frozen  North, 
For  one  like  him  in  word  and  act, 

To  call  her  old,  free  spirit  forth, 

And    give    her    faith    the    life    of 
fact,  — 

To  break  her  party  bonds  of  shame, 
And  labor  with  the  zeal  of  him 

To  make  the  Democratic  name 
Of  Liberty  the  synonyme,  — 

We  sweep  the  land  from  hilL  to  strand, 
We  seek  the  strong,    the   wise,  the 
brave, 

A-nd,  sad  of  heart,  return  to  stand 
In  silence  by  a  new-made  grave  • 

There,  where  his  breezy  hills  of  home 
Look  out  upon  his  sail- white  seas, 


The  sounds  of  winds  and  waters  come, 
And  shape  themselves  to  words  like 
these  : 

"Why,    murmuring,    mourn  that   he, 
whose  power 

Was  lent  to  Party  over-long, 
Heard  the  still  whisper  at  the  hour 

He  set  his  foot  on  Party  wrong  ? 

"  The  human  life  that  closed  so  well 
No  lapse  of  folly  now  can  stain  : 

The  lips  whence  Freedom's  protest  fell 
No  meaner  thought  can  now  profane. 

"  Mightier  than  living  voice  his  grave 
That  lofty  protest  utters  o'er  ; 

Through  roaring  wind  and  smiting  wave 
It  speaks    his   hate  of    wrong   once 


"Men  of  the  North  !  your  weak  regret 
Is  wasted  here  ;  arise  and  pay 

To  freedom  and  to  him  your  debt, 
By  following  where  he  led  the  way  !" 


THE  DREAM  OF    PIO  NONO. 

IT    chanced,    that   while    the    pious 

troops  of  France 
Fought     in     the     crusade     Pio    Nono 

preached, 
What  time  the   holy  Bourbons   stayed 

his  hands 
(The  Hur  and  Aaron  meet  for  such  a 

Moses), 
Stretched    forth   from   Naples  towards 

rebellious  Rome 

To  bless  the  ministry  of  Oudinot, 
And  sanctify  his  iron  homilies 
And  sharp  persuasions  of  the  bayonet, 
That  the  great  pontiff  fell  asleep,  and 

dreamed. 

He  stood  by  Lake  Tiberias,  in  the 
sun 

Of  the  bright  Orient  ;  and  beheld  the 
lame, 

The  sick,  and  blind,  kneel  at  the  Mas 
ter's  feet, 

And  rise  up  whole.  And,  sweetly  over 
all, 

Dropping  the  ladder  of  their  hymn  of 
praise 

From  heaven  to  earth,  in  silver  round? 
of  song, 


190 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


He  heard  the  blessed    angels  sing  of 

peace, 
Good-will  to  man,    and    glory  to    the 

Lord. 

Then  one,  with  feet  unshod,  and 
leathern  face 

Hardened  and  darkened  by  fierce  sum 
mer  suns 

And  hot  winds  of  the  desert,  closer  drew 

His  fisher's  haick,  and  girded  up  his 
loins, 

And  spake,  as  one  who  had  authority  : 

"  Come  thou  with  me." 

Lakeside  and  eastern  sky 
And  the  sweet   song  of  angels   passed 

away, 

And,  with  a  dream's  alacrity  of  change, 
The  priest,  and  the  swart  fisher  by  his 

side, 

Beheld  the  Eternal  City  lift  its  domes 
And    solemn    fanes     and    monumental 

pomp 
Above   the  waste    Campagna.     On  the 

hills 
The  blaze  of  burning  villas  rose  and 

fell, 

And  momently  the  mortar's  iron  throat 
Roared  from  the  trenches  ;  and,  within 

the  walls, 

Sharp  crash  of  shells,  low  groans  of  hu 
man  pain, 
Shout,    drum  beat,    and  the    clanging 

larum-bell, 
And  tramp  of  hosts,  sent  up  a  mingled 

sound, 
Half  wail  and  half  defiance.     As  they 

passed 

The  gate  of  San  Pancrazio,  human  blood 
Flowed    ankle-high    about    them,    and 

dead  men 
Choked  the  long  street  with  gashed  and 

gory  piles,  — 

A  ghastly  barricade  of  mangled  flesh, 
From  which,  at  times,  quivered  a  living 

hand, 
And  white  lips  moved  and  moaned.     A 

father  tore 

His  gray  hairs,  by  the  body  of  his  son, 
In  frenzy  ;  and  his  fair  young  daughter 

wept 

On  his  old  bosom.     Suddenly  a  flash 
Clove   the   thick    sulphurous   air,    and 

man  and  maid 
Sank,    crushed    and    mangled    by    the 

shattering  shell. 


Then  spake  the  Galilean  :  "Thou hast 

seen 
The  blessed   Master  and  his  works  of 

love  ; 
Look  now  on  thine  !     Hear'st  thou  the 

angels  sing 
Above    this    open    hell?     Thou    God's 

high-priest ! 
Thou  the  Vicegerent   of  the  Prince  of 

Peace  ! 

Thou  the  successor  of  his  chosen  ones  ! 
I,  Peter,  fisherman  of  Galilee, 
In  the  dear  Master's  name,  and  for  the 

love 

Of  his  true  Church,  proclaim  thee  Anti 
christ, 

Alien  and  separate  from  his  holy  faith, 
Wide  as   the  difference   between   death 

and  life, 
The  hate  of  man  and  the  great  love  of 

God! 
Hence,  and  repent !  " 

Thereat  the  pontiff  woke, 

Trembling,  and  muttering  o'er  his  fear 
ful  dream. 

"  What  means  he  ?  "  cried  the  Bourbon. 
"  Nothing  more 

Than  that  your  majesty  hath  all  too 
well 

Catered  for  your  poor  guests,  and  that, 
in  sooth, 

The  Holy  Father's  supper  troubleth 
him," 

Said  Cardinal  Antonelli,  with  a  smile. 


TATTLER. 

TAULER,  the  preacher,   walked,    one 

autumn  day, 
Without  the  walls  of  Strasburg,  by  the 

Rhine, 

Pondering  the  solemn  Miracle  of  Life  ; 
As   one   who,   wandering  in   a   starless 

night, 
Feels,    momently,    the    jar    of    unseen 

waves, 
And  hears  the  thunder  of  an  unknown 

sea, 
Breaking  along  an  unimagined  shore. 

And  as  he  walked  he  prayed.     Even 

the  same 

Old  prayer  with  which,  for  half  a  scor* 
of  years, 


TAULEK. 


191 


Morning,   and  noon,  and  evening,   lip 

and  heart 
Had  groaned  :    "  Have  pity  upon  me, 

Lord  ! 
Thou  seest,  while  teaching  others,  I  am 

blind. 
Send  me  a  man  who    can  direct  my 

steps  } " 

Then,  as  he  mused,  he  heard  along 

his  path 

A  sound  as  of  an  old  man's  staff  among 
The  dry,  dead  linden-leaves  ;  and,  look 
ing  up, 

He  saw  a  stranger,  weak,  and  poor,  and 
old. 

"  Peace  be  unto  thee,  father  !  "  Tau- 

ler  said, 
"  God  give  thee  a  good  day  !  "     The  old 

man  raised 
Slowly  his  calm  blue  eyes.     "I  thank 

thee,  son ; 
But  all  my  days  are  good,  and  none  are 

Wondering  thereat,  the  preacher  spake 

again, 
"God  give  thee  happy  life."     The  old 

man  smiled, 
"  I  never  am  unhappy." 

Tauler  laid 
His  hand  upon  the  stranger's  coarse  gray 

sleeve  : 
"Tell  rne,  0  father,   what  thy  strange 

words  mean. 
Surely  man's  days  are   evil,    and    his 

life 
Sad  as  the  grave  it  leads  to."     "Nay, 

my  son, 
Our  times  are  in  God's  hands,  and  all 

our  days 
Are   as  our  needs  :   for  shadow  as  for 

sun, 
For  cold  as  heat,  for  want  as  wealth, 

alike 
Our  thanks  are  due,  since  that  is  best 

which  is  ; 
And  that  which  is  not,  sharing  not  his 

life, 

Is  evil  only  as  devoid  of  good. 
And  for  the  happiness  of  which  I  spake, 
I  find  it  in  submission  to  his  will, 
And  calm  trust  in  the  holy  Trinity 
Of     Knowledge,     Goodness,    and     Al 
mighty  Power." 


Silently  wondering,  for  a  little  space, 

Stood  the  great  preacher  ;  then  he  spake 
as  one 

Who,  suddenly  grappling  with  a  haunt 
ing  thought 

Which  long  has  followed,  whispering 
through  the  dark 

Strange  terrors,  drags  it,  shrieking,  into 
light : 

"  What  if  God's  will  consign  thee  hence 
to  Hell?" 

"Then,"  said  the  stranger,  cheerily, 

"be  it  so. 
What  Hell  may  be  I  know  not ;  this  I 

know,  — 

I  cannot  lose  the  presence  of  the  Lord  : 
One  arm,  Humility,  takes  hold  upon 
His  dear  Humanity  ;  the  other,  Love, 
Clasps  his  Divinity.     So  where  I  go 
He  goes  ;    and   better   fire-walled   Hell 

with  Him 
Than  golden-gated  Paradise  without." 

Tears  sprang    in    Tauler's    eyes.     A 

sudden  light, 
Like  the  first  ray  which  fell  on  chaos, 

clove 

Apart  'the  shadow  wherein  he  ;,ad  walked 
Darkly  at  noon.     And,   as  tne  strange 

old  man 
Went  his   slow  way,   until   his  silver 

hair 
Set  like  the  white  moon  where  the  hills 

of  vine 
Slope  to  the  Rhine,  he  bowed  his  head 

and  said  : 
"My  prayer  is  answered.      God  hath 

sent  the  man 
Long  sought,  to  teach  me,  by  his  simple 

trust, 
Wisdom  the    weary    schoolmen    never 

knew." 

So,    entering    with    a    changed    and 

cheerful  step 
The  city  gates,    he  saw,   far  down  the 

street, 
A  mighty  shadow  break   the  light    of 

noon, 
Which  tracing    backward   till  its  airy 

lines 
Hardened  to  stony  plinths,  he  raised  his 

eyes 

0^'er  broad  facade  and  lofty  pediment, 
O'er  architrave  and  frieze  and  sainted 

nichq, 


192 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Up  the  stone  lace-work  chiselled  by  the 
wise 

Erwin  of  Steinbach,  dizzily  up  to  where 

In  the  noon-brightness  the  great  Min 
ster's  tower, 

Jewelled  with  sunbeams  on  its  mural 
crown, 

Hose  like  a  visible  prayer.  "  Behold !  " 
he  said, 

"  The  stranger's  faith  made  plain  be 
fore  mine  eyes. 

As  yonder  tower  outstretches  to  the 
earth 

The  dark  triangle  of  its  shade  alone 

When  the  clear  day  is  shining  on  its 
top, 

So,  darkness  in  the  pathway  of  Man's 
life 

Is  but  the  shadow  of  God's  providence, 

By  the  great  Sun  of  Wisdom  cast  there 
on  ; 

And  what  is  dark  below  is  light  in 
Heaven." 


LINES, 

SUGGESTED  BY  BEADING  A  STATE  PA 
PER,  WHEREIN  THE  HIGHER  LAW  IS 
INVOKED  TO  SUSTAIN  THE  LOWER 
ONE. 

A  PIOUS  magistrate  !  sound  his   praise 

throughout 
The  wondering  churches.      Who  shall 

henceforth  doubt 
That     the    long-wished     millennium 

draweth  nigh  ? 

Sin  in  high  places  has  become  devout, 
Tithes  mint,  goes  painful-faced,  and 

prays  its  lie 

Straight  up  to   Heaven,  and  calls  it 
piety  ! 

The  pirate,  watching  from  his  bloody 

deck 
The  weltering  galleon,  heavy  with  the 

gold 

Of  Acapulco,  holding  death  in  check 
While  prayers  are  said,  brows  crossed, 

and  beads  are  told,  — 
The  robber,  kneeling  where  the  wayside 

cross 

On  dark  Abruzzo  tells  of  life's  dread  loss 
From  his   own   carbine,   glancing   still 

abroad 
For  some  new  victim,  offering  thanks  to 

God!  — 


Rome,  listening  at  her  altars  to  the 

cry 
Of  midnight  Murder,  while  her  hounds 

of  hell 
Scour  France,  from  baptized  cannon  and 

holy  bell 
And    thousand-throated    priesthood, 

loud  and  high, 
Pealing  Te  Deums  to  the  shuddering 

sky, 
"Thanks  to  the   Lord,    who  grveth 

victory  ! " 
What  prove  these,  but  that  crime  was 

ne'er  so  black 
As  ghostly   cheer  and  pious  thanks  to 

lack  ? 
Satan  is  modest.     At  Heaven's  door  he 

lays 
His  evil    offspring,   and,   in  Scriptural 

phrase 
And  saintly  posture>  gives  to  God  the 

praise 

And  honor  of  the  monstrous  progeny. 
What  marvel,  then,  in  our  own  time  to 

see 

His  old  devices,  smoothly  acted  o'er,  — 
Official  piety,  locking  fast  the  door 
Of  Hope  against  three  million   souls  of 

men,  — 

Brothers,    God's   children,    Christ's   re 
deemed,  —  and  then, 
With   uprolled  eyeballs  and  on  bended 

knee, 
Whining  a  prayer  for  help  to  hide  the 

key! 


THE  VOICES. 

"WHY  urge  the  long,  unequal  fight, 
Since  Truth  has  fallen  in  the  street, 

Or  lift  anew  the  trampled  light, 

Quenched   by   the   heedless  million's 
feet? 

' '  Give  o'er  the  thankless  task  ;  forsake 
The  fools  who  know  not  ill  from  good  ; 

Eat,  drink,  enjoy  thy  own,  ard  take 
Thine  ease  among  the  multitude. 

"  Live  out  thyself  ;  Avith  others  share 
Thy  proper  life  no  more  ;  assume 

The  unconcern  of  sun  and  air, 

For  life  or  death,  or  blight  or  bloom. 

"The  mountain  pine  looks  calmly  on 
The  fires  that  scourge  the  plains 


THE   HERO. 


193 


Nor  heeds  the  eagle  in  the  sun 

The  small  birds  piping  in  the  snow  ! 

"  The  world  is  God's,  not  thine  •,  let  him 
Work  out  a  change,  if  change  must  be  : 

The  hand  that  planted  best  can  trim 
And  nurse  the  old  unfruitful  tree." 

So  spake  the  Tempter,  when  the  light 
Of  sun  and  stars  had  left  the  sky, 

I  listened,  through  the  cloud  and  night, 
And  heard,  methought,  a  voice  reply  : 

"  Thy  task  may  well  seem  over-hard, 
Who  scatterest  in  a  thankless  soil 

Thy  life  as  seed,  with  no  reward 
Save  that  which  Duty  gives  to  Toil. 

44  Not  wholly  is  thy  heart  resigned 
To  Heaven's  benign  and  just  decree, 

"Which,  linking  thee  with  all  thy  kind, 
Transmits  their  joys   and   griefs    to 
thee. 

"  Break  off  that  sacred  cham,  and  turn 
Back  on  thyself  thy  love  and  care ; 

Be  thou  thine  own  mean  idol,  burn 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Trust,  thy  children, 
there. 

"  Released  from  that  fraternal  law 
Which  shares  the  common  bale  and 
bliss, 

Ko  sadder  lot  could  Folly  draw, 

Or  Sin  provoke  from  Fate,  than  this. 

"'  The  meal  unshared  is  food  unblest  : 
Thou    hoard'st    in    vain    what    love 
should  spend  ; 

Belf-ease  is  pain  ;  thy  only  rest 
Is  labor  for  a  worthy  end. 

'•'  A  toil  that  gains  with  what  it  yields, 
And  scatters  to  its  own  increase, 

t\ml  hears,  while  sowing  outward  fields, 
The  harvest-song  of  inward  peace. 

"  Free-lipped  the  liberal  streamlets  run, 
Free  shines  for  all  the  healthful  ray  ; 

The  still  pool  stagnates  in  the  sun, 
The  lurid  earth-fire  haunts  decay  ! 

"What  is  it  that  the  crowd  requite 
Thy  love  with  4iate,  thy  truth  with 

lies? 

And  but  to  faith,  and  not  to  sight. 
The  walls  of  Freedom's  temple  rise  ? 
13 


"  Yet  do  thy  work  ;  it  shall  succeed 
In  thine  or  in  another's  day  ; 

And,  if  denied  the  victor's  meed, 
Thou  shalt  not  lack  the  toiler's  pay. 

"Faith    shares   the    future's  promise; 
Love's 

Self-offering  is  a  triumph  won  ; 
And  each  good  thought  or  action  moves 

The  dark  world  nearer  to  the  sun. 

"  Then  faint  not,  falter  not,  nor  plead 
Thy  weakness  ;  truth  itself  is  strong  j 

The  lion's  strength,  the  eagle's  speed, 
Are  not  alone  vouchsafed  to  wrong. 

"  Thy  nature,    which,  through  fire  and 
flood, 

To  place  or  gain  finds  out  its  way, 
Hath  power  to  seek  the  highest  good, 

And  duty's  holiest  call  obey  ! 

"Strivest     thou    in    darkness  ?  — Foes 

without 

In  league  with  traitor  thoughts  with 
in  ; 
Thy  night-watch  kept  with   trembling 

Doubt 

And     pale    Kemorse    the    ghost    of 
Sin  ?  — 

' '  Hast  thou  not,  on  some  week  of  storm, 
Seen  the  sweet  Sabbath  breaking  fair, 

And  cloud  and  shadow,  sunlit,  form 
The  curtains  of  its  tent  of  prayer  ? 

"  So,  haply,  when  thy  task  shall  end, 
The  wrong  shall  lose  itself  in  right, 

And  all  thy  week -clay  darkness  blend 
With  the  long  Sabbath  of  the  light  1  " 


THE   HERO. 

"  O  FOR  a  knight  like  Bayard, 

Without  reproach  or  fear  ; 
My  light  glove  on  his  casque  of  steelj 

My  love-knot  on  his  spear  ! 

"0  for  the  white  plume  floating 
Sad  Zutphen's  field  above,  — 

The  lion  heart  in  battle, 
The  woman's  heart  in  love  ! 

"  0  that  man  once  more  were  manly, 
Woman's  pride,  arid  not  her  scorn  : 

That  once  more  the  pale  young  mother 
Dared  to  boast  '  a  man  is  born '  1 


194 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


"  But,  now  life's  slumberous  current 
No  sun-bowed  cascade  wakes  ; 

KO  tall,  heroic  manhood 
The  level  duluess  breaks. 

"  0  for  a  knight  like  Bayard, 

Without  reproach  or  fear  ! 
My  light  glove  on  his  casque  of  steel, 

My  love-knot  on  his  spear  1 " 

Then  I  said,  my  own  heart  throbbing 
To  the  time  her  proud  pulse  beat, 

"  Life  hath  its  regal  natures  yet,  — 
True,  tender,  brave,  and  sweet  ! 

"  Smile  not,  fair  unbeliever  ! 

One  man,  at  least,  1  know, 
Who  might  wear  the  crest  of  Bayard 

Or  Sidney's  plume  of  snow. 

"  Once,  when  over  purple  mountains 

Died  away  the  Grecian  sun, 
And  the  far  Cyllenian  ranges 

Paled  and  darkened,  one  by  one,  — 

"  Fell  the  Turk,  a  bolt  of  thunder, 

Clearing  all  the  quiet  sky, 
And  against  his  sharp  steel  lightnings 

Stood  the  Suliote  but  to  die. 

"Woe  for  the  weak  and  halting  I 

The  crescent  blazed  behind 
A.  curving  line  of  sabres, 

Like  fire  before  the  wind  ! 

"  Last  to  fly,  and  first  to  rally, 

Rode  he  of  whom  I  speak, 
When,  groaning  in  his  bridle-path, 

Sank  down  a  wounded  Greek. 

"  With  the  rich  Albanian  costume 
Wet  with  many  a  ghastly  stain, 

Gazing  on  earth  and  sky  as  one 
Who  might  not  gaze  again  ! 

"  He  looked  forward  to  the  mountains, 
Back  on  foes  that  never  spare, 

then  flung  him  from  his  saddle, 
And  placed  the  stranger  there. 

M  '  Allah  !  hu  ! '     Through  flashing  sa 
bres, 

Through  a  stormy  hail  of  lead, 
The  good  Thessalian  charger 

Up  the  slopes  of  olives  sped. 


"  Hot  spurred  tlu  turban ed  riders  , 

He  almost  felt  their  breath, 
Where  a  mountain  stream  rolled  darkly 
down 

Between  the  hills  and  death. 

"  One  brave  and  manful  struggle,  — 

He  gained  the  solid  land, 
And  the  cover  of  the  mountains, 

And  the  carbines  of  his  band  !  " 

"  It  was  very  great  and  noble," 
Said  the  moist-eyed  listener  then, 

"  But  one  brave  deed  makes  no  hero  ; 
Tell  me  what  he  since  hath  been  !  " 

"Still  a  brave  and  generous  manhood, 
Still  an  honor  without  stain, 

In  the  prison  of  the  Kaiser, 
By  the  barricades  of  Seine. 

"  But  dream  not  helm  and  harness 

The  sign  of  valor  true  ; 
Peace  hath  higher  tests  of  manhood 

Than  battle  ever  knew. 

"Wouldst   know    him   now?      Behold 
him, 

The  Cadmus  of  the  blind, 
Giving  the  dumb  lip  language, 

The  idiot  clay  a  mind. 

"  AValking  his  round  of  duty 

Serenely  day  by  day, 
With  the  strong  man's  hand  of  labor 

And  childhood's  heart  of  play. 

"  True  as  the  knights  of  story, 

Sir  Lancelot  and  his  peers, 
Brave,  in  his  calm  endurance 

As  they  in  tilt  of  spears. 

"As  waves  in  stillest  waters, 

As  stars  in  noonday  skies, 
All  that  wakes  to  noble  action 

In  his  noon  of  calmness  lies. 

*  Wherever  outraged  Nature 
Asks  word  or  action  brave, 
Wherever  struggles  labor, 
Wherever  groans  a  slave,  — 

"  Wherever  rise  the  peoples, 

Wherever  sinks  a  throne, 
The  throbbing  heart  of  Freedom  finds 

An  answer  in  hi.-:  own 


THE   BAREFOOT  BOY. 


195 


"  Knight  of  a  better  era, 
Without  reproach  or  fear  ! 

Said  1  not  well  that  Bayards 
And  Sidneys  still  are  here  ?  * 


MY   DREAM. 

IN  my  dream,  methought  I  trod, 
Yesternight,  a  mountain  road  ; 
Narrow  as  Al  Sirat's  span, 
High  as  eagle's  flight,  it  ran. 

Overhead,  a  roof  of  cloud 
With  its  weight  of  thunder  bowed  / 
Underneath,  to  left  and  right, 
Blankness  and  abysmal  night. 

Here  and  there  a  wild-flower  blushed, 
Now  and  then  a  bird-song  gushed  ; 
Now  and  then,  through  rifts  of  shade, 
Stars  shone  out,  and  sunbeams  played. 

But  the  goodly  company, 
Walking  in  that  path  with  me, 
One  by  one  the  brink  o'erslid, 
One  by  one  the  darkness  hid. 

Some  with  wailing  and  lament, 
Some  with  cheerful  courage  went ; 
But,  of  all  who  smiled  or  mourned, 
Never  one  to  us  returned. 

Anxiously,  with  eye  and  ear, 
Questioning  that  shadow  drear, 
Never  hand  in  token  stirred, 
Never  answering  voice  I  heard  ! 

Steeper,  darker  !  —  lo  !  I  Mt 
From  my  feet  the  pathway  melt. 
Swallowed  by  the  black  despair, 
And  the  hungry  jaws  of  air, 

Past  the  stony-throated  caves, 
Strangled  by  the  wash  of  waves, 
Past  the  splintered  crags,  I  sank 
On  a  green  and  flowery  bank,  — 

Soft  as  fall  of  thistle-down, 
Lightly  as  a  cloud  is  blown, 
Soothingly  as  childhood  pressed 
To  the  bosom  of  its  rest. 

Of  the  sharp-horned  rocks  instead, 
Green  the  grassy  meadows  spread, 
Bright  with  waters  singing  by 
Trees  that  propped  a  golden  sky. 


Painless,  trustful,  sorrow-free, 
Old  lost  faces  welcomed  me, 
With  whose  sweetness  of  content 
Still  expectant  hope  was  blent. 

Waking  while  the  dawning  gray 
Slowly  brightened  into  day, 
Pondering  that  vision  fled, 
Thus  unto  myself  I  said  :  — 

"  Steep,  and  hung  with  clouds  of  strife 
Is  our  narrow  path  of  life  ; 
And  our  death  the  dreaded  fall 
Through  the  dark,  awaiting  all. 

"So,  with  painful  steps  we  climb 
Up  the  dizzy  ways  of  time, 
Ever  in  the  shadow  shed 
By  the  forecast  of  our  dread. 

' '  Dread  of  mystery  solved  alone, 
Of  the  untried  and  unknown  ; 
Yet  the  end  thereof  may  seem 
Like  the  falling  of  my  dream. 

"And  this  heart-consuming  care, 
All  our  fears  of  here  or  there, 
Change  and  absence,  loss  and  death, 
Prove  but  simple  lack  of  faith." 

Thou,  0  Most  Compassionate  ! 
Who  didst  stoop  to  our  estate, 
Drinking  of  the  cup  we  drain, 
Treading  in  our  path  of  pain,  — • 

Through  the  doubt  and  mystery, 
Grant  to  us  thy  steps  to  see, 
And  the  grace  to  draw  from  thence 
Larger  hope  and  confidence. 

Show  thy  vacant  tomb,  and  let, 
As  of  old,  the  angels  sit, 
Whispering,  by  its  open  door  : 
"  Fear  not  !     He  hath  gone  before  !  * 


THE   BAREFOOT   BOY. 

BLESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan  ! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes  ; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill  \ 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  gra**-  , 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy,  — 


196 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy  ! 

Prince  thou  art,  —  the  grown-up  man 

Only  is  republican. 

Let  the  million-dollared  ride  ! 

Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 

Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 

In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye,  — 

Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy  : 

Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy  ! 

0  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  clay, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood  ; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well ; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung  ; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  groundnut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine  ; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans  !  — 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks  ; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy,  — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

0  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees  ; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade  ; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone  ; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall  ; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides  ! 
Still  as  my  horizon  grow, 


Larger  grew  my  riches  too  , 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy  ! 

0  for  festal  dainties  spread, 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread,  — 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 
On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude  ! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold  ; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra  ; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch  :  pomp  and  joy 
Wpited  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can  ! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew  ; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat : 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil  : 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground  ; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah  !  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  ! 


FLOWERS   IN  WINTER. 

PAINTED   UPON   A   PORTE   LIVUE. 

How  strange  to  greet,  this  frosty  morn, 
In  graceful  counterfeit  of  flowers, 

These  children  of  the  meadows,  born 
Of  sunshine  and  of  showers  ! 

How  well  the  conscious  wood  retains 
The     pictures     of    its     flower  -  sown 

home,  — 
The    lights    and    shades,     the    pur]/!* 

stains, 
And  golden  hues  of  bloom  ! 


THE   RENDITION. 


197 


It  was  a  happy  thought  to  bring 
To  the  dark  season's  frost  and  rime 

This  painted  memory  of  spring, 
This  dream  of  summer-time. 

Our  hearts  are  lighter  for  its  sake, 
Our  fancy's  age  renews  its  youth, 

And  dim-remembered  fictions  take 
The  guise  of  present  truth. 

A  wizard  of  the  Merrimack,  — 
So  old  ancestral  legends  say,  — 

Could  call  green  leaf  and  blossom  back 
To  frosted  stem  and  spray. 

The  dry  logs  of  the  cottage  wall, 

Beneath    his  touch,    put    out    their 
leaves  ; 

The  clay-bound  swallow,  at  his  call, 
Played  round  the  icy  eaves. 

The  settler  saw  his  oaken  flail 

Take  bud,  and  bloom  before  his  eyes  ; 
From  frozen  pools  he  saw  the  pale, 

Sweet  summer  lilies  rise. 

To  their  old  homes,  by  man  profaned, 
Came  the  sad  dryads,  exiled  long, 

And  through   their  leafy  tongues  com 
plained 
Of  household  use  and  wrong. 

The  beechen  platter  sprouted  wild, 
The  pipkin  wore  its  old-time  green  ; 

The  cradle  o'er  the  sleeping  child 
Became  a  leafy  screen. 

Haply  our  gentle  friend  hath  met, 
While  wrandering  in  her  sylvan  quest, 

Haunting  his  native  woodlands  yet, 
That  Druid  of  the  West ;  — 

And,  while  the  dew  on  leaf  and  flower 
Glistened    in     moonlight    clear    and 

still, 
Learned    the    dusk    wizard's    spell    of 

power, 
And  caught  his  trick  of  skill. 

But  welcome,  be  it  new  or  old, 
The  gift  which  makes  the  day  more 
bright, 

And  paints,  upon  the  ground  of  cold 
And  darkness,  warmth  and  light  ! 

Without  is  neither  gold  nor  green  ; 
Within,  for  birds,  the  biroh-logs  sing  ; 


Yet,  summer-like,  we  sit  between 
The  autumn  and  the  spring. 

The  one,  with  bridal  blush  of  rose, 
And    sweetest    breath    of    woodland 
balm, 

And  one  whose  matron  lips  unclose 
In  smiles  of  saintly  calm. 

Fill  soft  and  deep,  O  winter  snow  ! 

The  sweet  azalia's  oaken  dells, 
And  hide  the  bank  where  roses  blow. 

And  swing  the  azure  bells  ! 

O'erlay  the  amber  violet's  leaves, 
The  purple  aster's  brookside  home, 

Guard  all  the  flowers  her  pencil  gives 
A  life  beyond  their  bloom. 

And  she,  when  spring  comes  round  again, 
By  greening  slope  and  singing  flood 

Shall  wander,  seeking,  not  in  vain, 
Her  darlings  of  the  wood. 


THE  RENDITION. 

I  HEARD  the  train's  shrill  whistle  call, 
I  saw  an  earnest  look  beseech, 
And  rather  by  that  look  than  speech 

My  neighbor  told  me  all. 


And,  as  I  thought  of  Liberty 
Marched      handcuffed     down 

s  worded  street, 
The  solid  earth  beneath  my  feet 

Reeled  fluid  as  the  sea. 


that 


I  felt  a  sense  of  bitter  loss,  — 

Shame,    tearless    grief,    and    stifling 
wrath, 

And  loathing  fear,  as  if  my  path 
A  serpent  stretched  across. 

All  love  of  home,  all  pride  of  place, 
All  generous  confidence  and  trust, 
Sank  smothering  in  that  deep  disgusi 

And  anguish  of  disgrace. 

Down  on  my  native  hills  of  June, 
And  home's  green  quiet,  hiding  all 
Fell  sudden  darkness  like  the  fall 

Of  midnight  upon  noon  ! 

And  Law,  an  unloosed  maniac,  strong, 
Blood-drunken,  through  the  blackness 
trod, 


198 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Hoarse-shouting  in  the  ear  of  God 
The  blasphemy  of  wrong. 

"  0  Mother,  from  thy  memories  proud, 
Thy  old  renown,  dear  Commonwealth, 
Lend  this  dead  air  a  breeze  of  health, 

And  smite  with  stars  this  cloud. 

' '  Mother  of  Freedom,  wise  and  brave, 
Rise  awful  in  thy  strength,"  I  said  ; 
Ah  me  !  I  spake  but  to  the  dead  ; 

I  stood  upon  her  grave  ! 
GiAwo.,1854. 


LINES, 

ON  THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  BILL  TO  PRO 
TECT  THE  RIGHTS  AND  LIBERTIES  OF 
THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  STATE  AGAINST 
THE  FUGITIVE  SLAVE  ACT. 

I  SAID  I  stood  upon  thy  grave, 

My  Mother  State,  when  last  the  moon 
Of  blossoms  clomb  the  skies  of  June. 

And,  scattering  ashes  on  my  head, 
I  wore,  undreaming  of  relief, 
The  sackcloth  of  thy  shame  and  grief. 

Again  that  moon  of  blossoms  shines 
On  leaf  and  flower  and  folded  Aving, 
And  thou  hast  risen  with  the  spring  ! 

Once  more  thy  strong  maternal  arms 
Are  round  about  thy  children  flung, — 
A  lioness  that  guards  her  young  ! 

No  threat  is  on  thy  closed  lips, 
But  in  thine  eye  a  power  to  smite 
The  mad  wolf  backward  from  its  light. 

Southward  the  baffled  robber's  track 
Henceforth  runs  only  ;  hereaway, 
The  fell  lycanthrope  finds  no  prey. 

Henceforth,  within  thy  sacred  gates, 
His  first  low  howl  shall  downward  draw 
The  thunder  of  thy  righteous  law. 

Kot  mindless  of  thy  trade  and  gain, 
But,  acting  on  the  wiser  plan, 
Thou  'rt  grown  conservative  of  man. 

Bo  shalt  thou  clothe  with  life  the  hope, 
Dream -painted  on  the  sightless  eyes 
Of  him  who  sang  of  Paradise,  — 


The  vision  of  a  Christian  man, 
In  virtue  as  in  stature  great, 
Embodied  in  a  Christian  State. 

And  thou,  amidst  thy  sisterhood 
Forbearing  long,  yet  standing  fast, 
Shalt  win  their  grateful  thanks  at  last; 

When  North  and  South  shall  strive  no 

more, 

And  all  their  feuds  and  fears  be  lost 
In  Freedom's  holy  Pentecost. 

6th  mo.,  1855. 


THE  FRUIT-GIFT. 

LAST  night,  just  as  the  tints  of  autumn's 

sky 
Of  sunset   faded   from  our  hills  and 

streams, 

I  sat,  vague  listening,  lapped  in  twi 
light  dreams, 

To  the  leafs  rustle,  and  the  cricket's  cry. 

Then,  like  that  basket,  flush  with  sum 
mer  fruit, 

Dropped  by  the  angels  at  the  Prophet's 
foot, 

Came,  unannounced,  a  gift  of  clustered 

sweetness, 

Full-orbed,    and    glowing    with    the 
prisoned  beams 

Of  summery  suns,  and  rounded  to  com 
pleteness 

By   kisses  of  the  south- wind   and   the 
dew. 

Thrilled  with  a  glad  surprise,  niethought 
I  knew 

The   pleasure  of  the  homeward-turning 
Jew, 

"When  Eschol's  clusters  on  his  shoulders 
lay, 

Dropping  their  sweetness  on  his  desert 
way. 

I  said,  "  This  fruit  beseems  no  world  of. 

sin. 

Its  parent  vine,  rooted  in  Paradise, 
O'ercrept  the  wall,  and  never  paid  the 

price 
Of  the  great  mischief,  —  an  ambrosial 

tree, 

Eden's  exotic,  somehow  smuggled  in, 
To  keep  the  thorns  and  thistles  com- 

pany." 

Perchance  our  frail,  sad  mother  plucked 
in  haste 


TO   C.   S. 


199 


A  single  vine-slip  as  she  passed  the 

gate, 
Where  the  dread  sword  alternate  paled 

and  burned, 

And  the  stern  angel,  pitying  her  fate, 
Forgave  the  lovely  trespasser,  and  turned 
Aside  his  face  of  lire  ;  and  thus  the  waste 
And  fallen  world  hath  yet  its  annual 

taste 

Of  primal  good,  to  prove  of  sin  the  cost, 
And    show    by   one    gleaned    ear    the 

mighty  harvest  lost. 


A  MEMORY. 

HERE,  while  the  loom  of  Winter  weaves 
The  shroud  of  flowers  and  fountains, 

I  think  of  thee  and  summer  eves 
Among  the  Northern  mountains. 

When  thunder  tolled  the  twilight's  close, 
And  winds  the  lake  were  rude  on, 

And  thou  wert  singing,  Ca'  the  Yowes, 
The  bonny  yowes  of  Cluden  ! 

When,  close  and  closer,  hushing  breath, 
Our  circle  narrowed  round  thee, 

And  smiles  and  tears  made  up  the  wreath 
Wherewith  our  silence  crowned  thee  ; 

And,  strangers  all,  we  felt  the  ties 

Of  sisters  and  of  brothers  ; 
Ah  !  whose  of  all  those  kindly  eyes 

Now  smile  upon  another's  ? 

The  sport  of  Time,  who  still  apart 

The  waifs  of  life  is  flinging  ; 
0,  nevermore  shall  heart  to  heart 

Draw  nearer  for  that  singing  ! 

Yet  when  the  panes  are  frosty-starred, 
And  twilight's  fire  is  gleaming, 

I  hear  the  songs  of  Scotland's  bard 
Sound  softly  through  my  dreaming  ! 

A  song  that  lends  to  winter  snows 
The  glow  of  summer  weather,  — 

Again  I  hear  thee  ca'  the  yowes 
To  Cluden's  hills  of  heather  ! 


TO  C.   S. 

JF  I  have  seemed  more  prompt  to  cen 
sure  wrong 

Than  praise  the   right ;  if  seldom  to 
thine  ear 


My  voice  hath  mingled  with  the  ex 
ultant  cheer 

Borne    upon   all   our    Northern   winds 
along  ; 

If  I  have  failed  to  join  the  fickle  throng 

In  wide-eyed  wonder,  that  thou  standest 
strong 

In  victory,  surprised  in  thee  to  find 

Brougham's  scathing  power  with  Can 
ning's  grace  combined  ; 

That  he,  for  whom  the  ninefold  Muses 
sang, 

From  their  twined  arms  a  giant  athlete 
sprang, 

Barbing  the  arroAVS  of  his  native  tongue 

With  the  spent  shafts  Latona's   archer 
flung, 

To  smite  the  Python  of  our  land  and 
time, 

Fell  as  the  monster  born  of  Crissa's  slime, 

Like    the  blind  bard  who  in  Castalian 
springs 

Tempered  the  steel  that  clove  the  crest 
of  kings, 

And  on  the  shrine  of  England's  freedom 
laid 

The  gifts    of    Cumse    and   of  Delphi's 
shade,  — 

Small  need  hast  thou  of  words  of  praise 

from  me. 
Thou  knowest  my  heart,  dear  friend, 

and  well  canst  guess 
That,  even  though  silent,  I  have  not 
the  less 

Rejoiced  to  see  thy  actual  life  agree 

With  the  large  future  which  I  sliaped  for 
thee, 

When,  years  ago,  beside  the  summer  sea, 

White  in   the  moon,  we  saw  the   long 
waves  fall 

Baffled  and  broken  from  the  rocky  wall, 

That,  to  the  menace  of  the  brawling  flood, 

Opposed  alone  its  massive  quietude, 

Calm   as   a  fate  ;    with  not  a   leaf  nor 
vine 

Nor  birch-spray  trembling  in  the  still 
moonshine, 

Crowning  it  like  God's  peace.     I  some 
times  think 

That  night-scene  by  the  sea  prophet 
ical,  — 

(For  Nature  speaks  in  symbols  and  in 
signs, 

And  through   her  pictures  human  fate 
divines),  — 

That  rock,  wherefrom  we  saw  the  billows 
sink 


200 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


in  jnmmurmg  rout,  uprising  clear  and 

tall 
In  the  white  light  of  heaven,  the  type 

of  one 

Who,  momently  by  Error's  host  assailed, 
Stands  strong  as  Truth,  in   greaves   of 

granite  mailed  ; 
And,  tranquil-fronted,  listening  over 

all 
The  tumult,  hears  the  angels  say,  Well 

done  ! 


THE   KANSAS   EMIGRANTS. 

WE  cross  the  prairie  as  of  old 
The  pilgrims  crossed  the  sea, 

To  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 
The  homestead  of  the  free  ! 

We  go  to  rear  a  wall  of  men 

On  Freedom's  southern  line, 
And  plant  "beside  the  cotton -tree 

The  rugged  Northern  pine  ! 

We  're  flowing  from  our  native  lulls 

As  our  free  rivers  flow  ; 
The  blessing  of  our  Mother-land 

Is  on  us  as  we  go. 

We  go  to  plant  her  common  school*- 

On  distant  prairie  swells, 
And  give  the  Sabbaths  of  the  wild 

The  music  of  her  bells. 

Upbearing,  like  the  Ark  of  old, 

The  Bible  in  our  van, 
We  go  to  test  the  truth  of  God 

Against  the  fraud  of  man. 

No    pause,    nor    rest,    save   where  the 
streams 

That  feed  the  Kansas  run, 
Save  where  our  Pilgrim  gonfalon 

Shall  flout  the  setting  sun  ! 

We  '11  tread  the  prairie  as  of  old 

Our  fathers  sailed  the  sea, 
And  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 

The  homestead  of  the  free  ! 


SONG    OF    SLAVES     IN    THE 
DESERT.63 

WHERE  are  we  going  ?  where  are  we  go 
ing' 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 


Lord  of  peoples,  lord  of  lands, 
Look  across  these  shining  sands, 
Through  the  furnace  of  the  noon, 
Through  the  white  light  of  the  moon. 
Strong  the  Ghiblee  wind  is  blowing, 
Strange  and  large  the  world  is  growingl 
Speak  and  tell  us  where  we  are  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 

Bornou  land  was  rich  and  good, 
Wells  of  water,  fields  of  food, 
Dourra  fields,  and  bloom  of  bean, 
And  the  palm-tree  cool  and  green  : 
Bornou  land  we  see  no  longer, 
Here  we  thirst  and  here  we  hunger, 
Here  the  Moor-man  smites  in  anger  : 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 

When  we  went  from  Bornou  land, 
We  were  like  the  leaves  and  sand, 
We  were  many,  we  are  few  ; 
Life  has  one,  and  death  has  two  : 
Whitened  bones  our  path  are  showing, 
Thou  All-seeing,  thou  All-knowing  ! 
Hear  us,  tell  us,  where  are  we  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 

Moons  of  marches  from  our  eyes 
Bornou  land  behind  us  lies  ; 
Stranger  round  us  day  by  day 
Bends  the  desert  circle  gray  ; 
Wild  the  waves  of  sand  are  flowing, 
Hot  the  winds  above  them  blowing,  — 
Lord  of  all  things  !  —  where  are  we  go 
ing  ? 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 

We  arc  weak,  but  Thou  art  strong  ; 
vShort  our  lives,  but  Thine  is  long  ; 
Ve  are  blind,  but  Thou  hast  eyes  ; 
Wfc  ttre  fools,  but  Thou  art  wise  ! 

Thou,  our  morrow's  pathway  knowing 
Through   the   strange   world   round   us 

growing, 

Hear  us,  tell  us  where  are  we  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 


LINES, 

INSCRIBED  TO  FRIENDS  UNDER  ARREST 
FOR  TREASON  AGAINST  THE  SLAVE 
POWER. 

THE  age  is  dull  and  mean.     Men  creep, 
Not   walk  ;  with  blopd  too  pale  and 
tame 


THE  HASCHISH. 


201 


Tp  pay  the  debt  they  owe  to  shame  ; 
Buy  cheaps,  sell   dear  ;  eat,  drink,  and 
sleep 

Down-pillowed,  deaf  to  moaning  want; 
Pay  tithes  for  soul-insurance  ;  keep 

Six  days  to  Mammon,  one  to  Cant. 

In  such  a  time,  give  thanks  to  God, 
That  somewhat  of  the  holy  rage 
"With  which   the    prophets  in  their 
age 

On  all  its  decent  seemings  trod, 
Has  set  your  feet  upon  the  lie, 

That  man  and  ox  and  soul  and  clod 
Are  market  stock  to  sell  and  buy  ! 

The  hot  words  from  your  lips,  my  own, 
To  caution  trained,  might  not  repeat  ; 
But  if  some  tares  among  the  wheat 
Of    generous    thought   and    deed   were 

sown, 
No    common   wrong   provoked    your 

zeal  ; 

The  silken  gauntlet  that  is  thrown 
In  such  a  quarrel  rings  like  steel. 

The  brave  old  strife  the  fathers  saw 
For  Freedom  calls  for  men  again 
Like  those  who  battled  not  in  vain 

For  England's  Charter,  Alfred's  law  ; 
And  right  of  speech  and  trial  just 

Wage  in  your  name  their  ancient  war 
With  venal  courts  and  perjured  trust. 

God's  ways  seem  dark,  but,  soon  or  late, 

They  touch  the  shining  hills  of  day  ; 

The  evil  cannot  brook  delay, 
The  good  can  well  afford  to  wait. 

Give  ermined  knaves   their  hour   of 

crime  ; 
Ye  have  the  future  grand  and  great, 

The  safe  appeal  of  Truth  to  Time  ! 


THE   NEW  EXODUS.64 

BY   fire  and  cloud,    across   the   desert 

sand, 

And  through  the  parted  waves, 
From  their  long  bondage,  with  ail  out 
stretched  hand, 
God  led  the  Hebrew  slaves  ! 

Dead  as  the  letter  of  the  Pentateuch, 

As  Egypt's  statues  cold, 
In  the  adytum  of  the  sacred  book 

Now  stands  that  marvel  old. 


"  Lo,  God  is  great  ! "  the  simple  Mos 
lem  says. 

We  seek  the  ancient  date, 
Turn  the  dry  scroll,  and  make  that  liv 
ing  phrase 
A  dead  one  :  "  God  was  great  ! " 

And,  like  the  Coptic  monks  by  Mousa's 

wells, 

We  dream  of  wonders  past, 
Vague  as  the  tales  the  wandering  Arab 

tells, 
Each  drowsier  than  the  last. 

0  fools  and  blind  !  Above  the  Pyramids 
Stretches  once  more  that  hand, 

And  tranced  Egypt,  from  her  stony  lids, 
Flings  back  her  veil  of  sand. 

And  morning-smitten  Memnon,  singing, 

wakes  ; 

And,  listening  by  his  Nile, 
O'er  Arnmon's  grave  and  awful  visage 

breaks 
A  sweet  and  human  smile. 

Not,  as  before,  with  hail  and  fire,  and 

call 

Of  death  for  midnight  graves, 
But  in   the   stillness   of  the   noonday, 

fall 
The  fetters  of  the  slaves. 

No  longer  through  the  Ked  Sea,  as  of 

old, 

The  bondmen  walk  dry  shod  ; 
Through  human  hearts,  by  love  of  Him 

controlled, 
Euns  now  that  path  of  God  ! 


THE   HASCHISH. 

OF  all  that  Orient  lands  can  vaunt 
Of  marvels  with  our  own  competing, 

The  strangest  is  the  Haschish  plant, 
And  what  will  follow  on  its  eating. 

What  pictures  to  the  taster  rise, 
Of  Dervish  or  of  Almeh  dances  ! 

Of  Eblis,  or  of  Paradise, 

Set  all  aglow  with  Houri  glances  ! 

The  poppy  visions  of  Cathay, 

The  heavy  beer-trance  of  the  Suabian ,' 
The  wizard  lights  and  demon  play 

Of  nights  Walpurgis  and  Arabian  J 


202 


BALLADS. 


The  Mollah  and  the  Christian  dog 
Change  place  in  mad  metempsycho 
sis  ; 

The  Muezzin  climbs  the  synagogue, 
The  Kabbi  shakes  his  beard  at  Moses  ! 

The  Arab  by  his  desert  well 

Sits    choosing    from     some    Caliph's 

daughters, 
And  hears  his  single  camel's  bell 

Sound  welcome  to  his  regal  quarters. 

The  Koran's  reader  makes  complaint 
Of  Shitan  dancing  on  and  off  it ; 

The  robber  offers  alms,  the  saint 

Drinks   Tokay   and    blasphemes    the 
Prophet. 

Such  scenes  that  Eastern  plant  awakes  ; 

But  we  have  one  ordained  to  beat  it, 
The  Haschish  of  the  West,  which  makes 

Or  fools  or  knaves  of  all  who  eat  it. 

The  preacher  eats,  and  straight  appears 
His  Bible  in  a  new  translation  : 


Its  angels  negro  overseers, 

And    Heaven    itself    a   snug   pbnla 
tion  ! 

The  man  of  peace,  about  whose  dreams 
The  sweet  millennial  angels  cluster, 

Tastes    the   mad   weed,    and   plots   and 

schemes, 
A  raving  Cuban  filibuster  ! 

The  noisiest  Democrat,  with  ease, 
It  turns  to  Slavery's  parish  beadle  ; 

The  shrewdest  statesman  eats  and  sees 
Due  southward  point  the  polar  needle 

The  Judge  partakes,  and  sits  erelong 
Upon  his  bench  a  railing  blackgiuvrd  ^ 

Decides  off-hand  that  right  is  wrong, 
And   reads    the   ten    commandments 
backward. 

0  potent  plant  !  so  rare  a  taste 
Has  never  Turk  or  Gentoo  gotten  ; 

The  hempen  Haschish  of  the  East 
Is  powerless  to  our  Western  Cotton  ! 


BALLADS. 


MARY  GARVIN. 

FROM  the  heart  of  Waumbek  Methna, 
from  the  lake  that  never  fails, 

Falls  the  Saco  in  the  green  lap  of  Con- 
way's  intervales  ; 

There,  in  wild  and  virgin  freshness,  its 
waters  foam  and  flow, 

As  when  Darby  Field  first  saw  them, 
two  hundred  years  ago. 

But,  vexed  in  all  its  seaward  course  with 

bridges,  dams,  and  mills, 
How  changed  is  Saco's  stream,  how  lost 

its  freedom  of  the  hills, 
Since  travelled   Jocelyn,   factor   Vines, 

and  stately  Champernoon 
Heard  on  its  banks  the  gray  wolfs  howl, 

the  trumpet  of  the  loon  ! 

With  smoking  axle  hot  with  speed,  with 
steeds  of  fire  and  steam, 

Wide-waked  To-day  leaves  Yesterday 
behind  him  like  a  dream. 


Still,  from  the  hurrying  train  of  Life, 
fly  backward  far  and  fast 

The  milestones  of  the  fathers,  the  land 
marks  of  the  past. 


But  human  hearts  remain  unchanged  : 

the  sorrow  and  the  sin, 
The  loves  and  hopes  and  fears  of  old,  are 

to  our  own  akin  ; 
And   if,  in  tales  our  fathers  told,    the 

songs  our  mothers  sung, 
Tradition  wears  a  snowy  beard,  Eomance 

is  always  young. 


0  sharp-lined  man  of  traffic,  on  Saco's 

banks  to-day  ! 
0  mill-girl  watching  late  and  long  the 

shuttle's  restless  play  ! 
Let,  for  the   once,  a  listening  ear  the 

working  hand  beguile, 
And   lend  my  old   Provincial    tale,  as 

suits,  a  tear  or  smile  ! 


MARY   GARVIN. 


203 


The  evening  gun  had  sounded  from  gray 

Fort  Mary's  walls  ; 
Through  the  forest,  like  a  wild  beast, 

roared  and  plunged  the  Saco's  falls. 

And   westward   on   the   sea-wind,    that 

damp  and  gusty  grew, 
Over  cedars  darkening  inland  the  smokes 

of  Spurwink  blew. 

On  the  hearth  of  Farmer  Garvin  blazed 
the  crackling  walnut  log  ; 

Right  and  left  sat  dame  and  goodman, 
and  between  them  lay  the  dog, 

Head  on  paws,  and  tail  slow  wagging, 
and  beside  him  on  her  mat, 

Sitting  drowsy  in  the  fire-light,  winked 
and  purred  the  mottled  cat. 

"Twenty  years!"  said  Goodman  Gar 
vin,  speaking  sadly,  under  breath, 

And  his  gray  head  slowly  shaking,  as 
one  who  speaks  of  death. 

The  goodwife  dropped  her  needles  :   "It 

is  twenty  years  to-day, 
Since  the  Indians  fell  on  Saco,  and  stole 

our  child  away  " 

Then  they  sank  into  the  silence,  for 
each  knew  the  other's  thought, 

Of  a  great  and  common  sorrow,  and 
words  were  needed  not. 

"Who knocks?"  cried  Goodman  Garvin. 

The  door  was  open  thrown  ; 
On  two  strangers,  m  an  and  maiden,  cloaked 

and  furred,  the  fire-light  shone. 

One  with  courteous  gesture  lifted  the 
bear- skin  from  his  head  ; 

"  Lives  here  Elkanah  Garvin  ?  "  "I 
am  he,"  the  goodman  said. 

"  Sit  ye  down,  and  dry  and  warm  ye, 
for  the  night  is  chill  with  rain." 

And  the  goodwife  drew  the  settle,  and 
stirred  the  fire  amain. 

The  maid  unclasped  her  cloak-hood,  the 

fire-light  glistened  fair 
In  her  large,  moist  eyes,  and  over  soft 

folds  of  dark  brown  hair. 

Dame  Garvin  looked  upon  her  :  "  It  is 
Mary's  self  I  see  ! 


Dear  heart  !  "  she  cried,  "  now  tell  me, 
has  my  child  come  back  to  me  ? " 

"My  name  indeed  is  Mary,"  said  the 
stranger,  sobbing  wild  ; 

"  Will  you  be  to  me  a  mother  ?  I  am 
Mary  Garvin's  child  ! 

"  She  sleeps  by  wooded  Simcoe,  but  on 
her  dying  day 

She  bade  my  father  take  me  to  her  kins 
folk  far  away. 

"  And  when  the  priest  besought  her  to 

do  me  no  such  wrong, 
She  said,  '  May  God  forgive  me  !    I  have 

closed  my  heart  too  long. 

"  '  When  I  hid  me  from  my  father,  and 
shut  out  my  mother's  call, 

I  sinned  against  those  dear  ones,  and 
the  Father  of  us  all. 

"  '  Christ's  love  rebukes  no  home-love, 
breaks  no  tie  of  kin  apart  ; 

Better  heresy  in  doctrine,  than  heresy 
of  heart. 

"  'Tell  me  not  the  Church  must  censure  : 
she  who  wept  the  Cross  beside 

Never  made  her  own  flesh  strangers,  nor 
the  claims  of  blood  denied  ; 

' '  '  And  if  she  who  wronged  her  parents, 
with  her  child  atones  to  them, 

Earthly  daughter,  Heavenly  mother ! 
thou  at  least  wilt  not  condemn  ! ' 

' '  So,    upon   her   death-bed    lying,    rny 

blessed  mother  spake  ; 
As  we  come  to  do  her  bidding,  so  receive 

us  for  her  sake." 

"  God  be  praised  !  "  said  Goodwife  Gar 
vin,  "  He  taketh,  and  he  gives  ; 

He  woundeth,  but  he  healeth  ;  in  her 
child  our  daughter  lives  !  " 

"  Amen  !  "  the  old  man  answered,  as  he 

brushed  a  tear  away, 
And,  kneeling  by  his  hearthstone,  said, 

with  reverence,  "  Let  us  pray." 

All  its  Oriental  symbols,  and  its  Hebrew 

paraphrase, 
Warm  with  earnest  life  and  feeling,  rose 

his  prayer  of  love  and  praise. 


204 


BALLADS. 


But  lie  started  at  beholding,  as  he  rose 

front  off'  his  knee, 
The  stranger  ci-oss  his  forehead  with  the 

sign  of  Papistrie. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  cried  Farmer  Garvin. 

"  Is  an  English  Christian's  home 
A  chapel  or  a  mass-house,  that  you  make 

the  sign  of  Rome  ?  " 

Then  the  young  girl  knelt  beside  him, 
kissed  his  trembling  hand,  and 
cried  : 

"  0,  forbear  to  chide  my  father  ;  in  that 
faith  my  mother  died  ! 

"On  her  wooden   cross   at   Simcoe  the 

dews  and  sunshine  fall, 
As  they  fall  on  Spurwink's  graveyard  ; 

and  the  dear  God  watches  all !  " 

The  old  man  stroked  the  fair  head  that 

rested  on  his  knee  ; 
"  Your  words,  dear  child,"  he  answered, 

"  are  God's  rebuke  to  me. 

"  Creed  and  rite  perchance  may  differ, 
yet  our  faith  and  hope  be  one. 

Let  me  be  your  father's  father,  let  him 
be  to  me  a  son." 

When  the  horn,  on  Sabbath  morning, 
through  the  still  and  frosty  air, 

From  Spurwink,  Pool,  and  Black  Point, 
called  to  sermon  and  to  prayer, 

To  the  goodly  house  of  worship,  where, 

in  order  due  and  fit, 
As  by  public  vote  directed,  classed  and 

ranked  the  people  sit  ; 

Mistress  first  and  good  wife  after,  clerkly 
squire  before  the  clown, 

From  the  brave  coat,  lace-embroidered, 
to  the  gray  frock,  shading  down  ; 

From  the  pulpit  read  the  preacher,  — 
"  Goodman  Garvin  and  his  wife 

Fain  Avould  thank  the  Lord,  whose  kind 
ness  has  followed  them  through 
life, 

"  For  the  great  and  crowning  mercy, 
that  their  daughter,  from  the 
wild, 

Where  she  rests  (they  hope  in  God's 
peace),  has  sent  to  them  her  child ; 


"And  the  prayers  of  all  God's  people 
they  ask,  that  they  may  prove 

Not  unworthy,  through  their  weakness, 
of  such  special  proof  of  love." 

As  the  preacher  prayed,  uprising,  the 
aged  couple  stood, 

And  the  fair  Canadian  also,  in  her  mod 
est  maidenhood. 

Thought  the  elders,  grave  and  doubting, 
"  She  is  Papist  born  and  bred  "  ; 

Thought  the  young  men,  "  'T  is  an 
angel  in  Mary  Garvin's  stead  !  " 

\  MAUD  MULLER./ 

MAUD  MULLER,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But   when   she   glanced    to  the    far-off 

town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And    a    nameless    longing     filled    her 
breast,  — 

A  wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For    something    better    than   she    had 
known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  asked  a  draught  from  the  spring  that 

flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bub 
bled  up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed   as   she   gave   it,    looking 

down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,   and  her  tattered 

gown. 


MAUD   MULLEK. 


205 


"  Thanks  !  "  said  the  Judge  ;  "  a  sweeter 

draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and 

trees, 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming 

bees  ; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  won 
dered  whether 

The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul 
weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown, 
And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and  brown  ; 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 


At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed  :  "Ah 

me  ! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be  ! 

"  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

"My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth 

coat ; 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

"I'd  dress   my  mother  so  grand  and 

gay. 

A.rid  the  baby  should  have   a  new  toy 
each  day. 

"  And  I'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe 

the  poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left   our 

door." 

The  Judge   looked  back  as  he  climbed 

the  hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 

"A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful 

air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

""Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay  : 


"No   doubtful  balance   of    rights   and 

wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

"  But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds, 
And  health  and  quiet  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters  proud  and 

cold, 
And  his  mother  vain  of  her  rank  and 


So,   closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode 

on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love- 
tune  ; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the 

well 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright 

glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go  ; 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft,   when  the  wine  in   his  glass  was 

red, 
He  longed  for  the  wrayside  well  instead  ; 

And   closed   his   eyes  on  his  garnished 

rooms 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover-blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a  se 
cret  pain, 
"  Ah,  that  I  were  free  again  ! 

"  Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day, 
Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her 
hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 
And  many  children  played  round  her 
door. 

But   care    and  sorrow,    and  childbirth 

pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 


206 


BALLADS. 


A.nd  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow 
lot. 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein. 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls  ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned, 

And  for  him  who   sat  by  the  chimney 

lug> 

Dozing    and   grumbling    o'er  pipe  and 
mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she   took   up  her  burden  of  life 

again, 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Jiidge, 

For  riehtepiner  and  household  drudge  ! 

God  pity  them  both  !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 
The  saddest  are  these  :  "It  might  have 
been  ! " 

Ah,  well  !  for  us  all  some   sweet  hope 

lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes  ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away  ! 


THE  RANGER. 

ROBERT  RAWLIN  !  —  Frosts  were  falling 
When  the  ranger's  horn  was  calling 

Through  the  woods  to  Canada. 
Gone  the  winter's  sleet  and  snowing, 
Gone  the  spring-time's  bud  and  blowing, 
Gone  the  summer's  harvest  mowing, 


And  again  the  fields  are  gray. 
Yet  away,  he  's  away  ! 
Faint  and  fainter  hope  is  growing 
In  the  hearts  that  mourn  his  stay. 

Where  the  lion,  crouching  high  on 
Abraham's  rock  with  teeth  of  iron, 

Glares  o'er  wood  and  wave  away, 
Faintly  thence,  as  pines  far  sighing, 
Or  as  thunder  spent  and  dying, 
Come  the  challenge  and  replying, 

Come  the  sounds  of  flight  and  fray. 

Well-a-day  !    Hope  and  pray  ! 
Some  are  living,  some  are  lying 

In  their  red  graves  far  away. 

Straggling  rangers,  worn  with  danger^ 
Homeward  faring,  weary  strangers 

Pass  the  farm-gate  on  their  way  ; 
Tidings  of  the  dead  and  living, 
Forest  march  and  ambush,  giving, 
Till  the  maidens  leave  their  weaving, 

And  the  lads  forget  their  play. 

"  Still  away,  still  away  !  " . 
Sighs  a  sad  one,  sick  with  grieving, 

"  Why  does  Robert  still  delay  !  " 

Nowhere  fairer,  sweeter,  rarer, 
Does  the  golden-locked  fruit-bearer 

Through  his  painted  woodlands  stray, 
Than  where  hillside  oaks  and  beeches 
Overlook  the  long,  blue  reaches, 
Silver  coves  and  pebbled  beaches, 

And  green  isles  of  Casco  Bay  ; 

Nowhere  day,  for  delay, 
With  a  tenderer  look  beseeches, 

"Let    me    with    my   charmed    earth 
stay." 

On  the  grain-lands  of  the  mainlands 
Stands  the  serried  corn  like  train-bunds, 

Plume  and  pennon  rustling  gay  ; 
Out  at  sea,  the  islands  wooded, 
Silver  birches,  golden-hooded, 
Set  with  maples,  crimson-blooded, 

White  sea-foam  and  sand-hills  gray, 

Stretch  away,  far  away. 
Dim  and  dreamy,  over-brooded 

By  the  hazy  autumn  day. 

Gayly  chattering  to  the  clattering 

Of  the  brown  nuts  downward  pattering, 

Leap  the  squirrels,  red  and  gray. 
On  the  grass-land,  on  the  fallow, 
Drop  the  apples,  red  and  yellow  ; 
Drop  the  russet  pears  and  mellow, 

Drop  the  red  leaves  all  the  day. 

And  away,  swift  away, 


THE  RANGER. 


207 


Sun  and  cloud,  o'er  hill  and  hollow 
Chasing,  weave  their  web  of  play. 

"Martha  Mason,  Martha  Mason, 
Prithee  tell  us  of  the  reason 

Why  you  mope  at  home  to-day  : 
Surely  smiling  is  not  sinning  ; 
Leave  your  quilling,  leave  your  spinning  ; 
What  is  all  your  store  of  linen, 

If  your  heart  is  never  gay  ? 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 
Never  yet  did  sad  beginning 

Make  the  task  of  life  a  play." 

Overberiding,  till  she 's  blending 
With  the  flaxen  skein  sho  's  tending 

Pale  brown  tresses  smoothed  away 
From  her  face  of  patient  sorrow, 
Sits  she,  seeking  but  to  borrow, 
From  the  trembling  hope  of  morrow, 

Solace  for  the  weary  day. 

"  Go  your  way,  laugh  and  play  ; 
Unto  Him  who  heeds  the  sparrow 

And  the  lily,  let  me  pray." 

"  With  our  rally,  rings  the  valley,  — 
Join  us  !  "  cried  the  blue-eyed  Nelly  ; 

"  Join     us  !  "     cried     the     laughing 

May, 

"  To  the  beach  we  all  are  going, 
And,  to  save  the  task  of  rowing, 
West  by  north  the  wind  is  blowing, 

Blowing  briskly  down  the  bay  ! 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 
Time  and  tide  are  swiftly  flowing, 

Let  us  take  them  while  we  may  ! 

"  Never  tell  us  that  you  '11  fail  us, 
Where  the  purple  beach-plum  mellows 

On  the  bluffs  so  wild  and  gray. 
Hasten,  for  the  oars  are  falling  ; 
Hark,  our  merry  mates  are  calling  : 
Time  it  is  that  we  were  all  in, 

Singing  tide  ward  down  the  bay  !  " 

' '  Nay,  nay,  let  me  stay  ; 
Sore  and  sad  for  Robert  Rawlin 

Is  my  heart,"  she  said,  "to-day." 

"  Vain  your  calling  for  Rob  Rawlin  !. 

Some  red  squaw  his  moose-meat  's  broil 
ing, 
Or  some  French  lass,  singing  gay  ; 

Just  forget  as  he  's  forgetting  ; 

What  avails  a  life  of  fretting  ? 

If  some  stars  must  needs  be  setting, 
Others  rise  as  good  as  they." 
"  Cease,  I  pray  ;  go  your  way  !  " 


Martha  cries,  her  eyelids  wetting  ; 

"  Foul  and  false  the  words  you  say  !  " 

"Martha  Mason,  hear  to  reason  ! 
Prithee,  put  a  kinder  face  on  !  " 

"  Cease  to  vex  me,"  did  she  say  ; 
"  Better  at  his  side  be  lying, 
With  the  mournful  pine-trees  sighing, 
And  the  wild  birds  o'er  us  crying, 

Than  to  doubt  like  mine  a  prey  ; 

While  away,  far  away, 
Turns  my  heart,  forever  trying 

Some  new  hope  for  each  new  day. 

"When  the  shadows  veil  the  meadows, 
And  the  sunset's  golden  ladders 

Sink  from  twilight's  walls  of  gray,  — 
From  the  window  of  my  dreaming, 
I  can  see  his  sickle  gleaming, 
Cheery-voiced,  can  hear  him  teaming 

Down  the  locust-shaded  way  ; 

But  away,  swift  away, 
Fades  the  fond,  delusive  seeming, 

And  I  kneel  again  to  pray. 

"  When  the  growing  dawn  is  showing, 
And  the  barn-yard  cock  is  crowing, 

And  the  horned  moon  pales  away  : 
From  a  dream  of  him  awaking, 
Every  sound  my  heart  is  making 
Seems  a  footstep  of  his  taking  ; 

Then  I  hush  the  thought,  and  say, 

'  Nay,  nay,  he 's  away  ! ' 
Ah  !  my  heart,  my  heart  is  breaking 

For  the  dear  one  far  away." 

Look  up,  Martha  !  worn  and  swarthy, 
Glows  a  face  of  manhood  worthy  : 

"  Robert  !  "  "Martha  !"  all  they  say 
O'er  went  wheel  and  reel  together, 
Little  cared  the  owner  whither  ; 
Heart  of  lead  is  heart  of  feather, 

Noon  of  night  is  noon  of  day  ! 

Come  away,  come  away ! 
When  such  lovers  meet  each  other, 

Why  should  prying  idlers  stay  ? 

Quench  the  timber's  fallen  embers, 
Quench  the  red  leaves  in  December's 

Hoary  rime  and  chilly  spray. 
But  the  hearth  shall  kindle  clearer, 
Household  welcomes  sound  sincerer, 
Heart  to  loving  heart  draw  nearer, 

When  the  bridal  bells  shall  say  : 

"Hope  and  pray,  trust  alway  ; 
Life  is  sweeter,  love  is  dearer, 

For  the  trial  and  delay  !  " 


208 


LATER  POEMS. 


LATER    POEMS. 


THE   LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN. 


O'ER    the    bare    woods,    whose   out 
stretched  hands 
Plead   with  the  leaden  heavens  in 

vain, 
I  see,  beyond  the  valley  lands, 

The  sea's  long  level  dim  with  rain. 
Around  me  all  things,  stark  and  dumb, 
Seem  praying  for  the  snows  to  come, 
And,  for  the  summer  bloom  and  green 
ness  gone, 

With  winter's  sunset  lights  and  dazzling 
morn  atone. 

II. 

Along  the  river's  summer  walk, 

The  withered  tufts  of  asters  nod  ; 
And  trembles  on  its  arid  stalk 

The  hoar  plume  of  the  golden-rod. 
And  on  a  ground  of  sombre  fir, 
And  azure-studded  juniper, 
The  silver  birch  its  buds  of  purple  shows, 
And  scarlet  berries  tell  where  bloomed 
the  sweet  wild -rose  ! 


With  mingled  sound  of  horns  and  bells, 
A  far-heard  clang,  the  wild  geese 

fly, 

Storm-sent,    from   Arctic  moors    and 

fells, 

Like  a  great  arrow  through  the  sky, 
Two  dusky  lines  converged  in  one, 
Chasing  the  southward-flying  sun  ; 
While  the  brave  snow-bird  and  the  hardy 

JaY 

Call  to  them  from  the  pines,  as  if  to  bid 
them  stay. 


I  passed  this  way  a  year  ago  : 

The  wind  blew  south  ;  the  noon  of 

day 
Was  warm  as  June's  ;  and  save  that 

snow 
Flecked  the  low  mountains  far  away, 


And  that  the  vernal-seeming  breeze 
Mocked  faded  grass  and  leafless  trees, 
I  might  have  dreamed  of  summer  as  I  lay, 
Watching  the  fallen  leaves  with  the  soft 
wind  at  play. 


Since  then,  the  winter  blasts  have  piled 

The  white  pagodas  of  the  snow 
On  these  rough  slopes,  and,  strong  and 

wild, 

Yon  river,  in  its  overflow 
Of  spring-time  rain  and  sun,  set  free, 
Crashed  with  its  ices  to  the  sea  ; 
And  over  these  gray  fields,  then  green 

and  gold, 

The  summer  corn  has  waved,  the  thun 
der's  organ  rolled. 


VI. 

Eich  gift  of  God  !     A  year  of  time  ! 

What  pomp  of  rise  and  shut  of  day, 
What  hues  wherewith  our  Northern 
clime 

Makes  autumn's  dropping  woodlands 

gaY» 

What  airs  outblown  from  ferny  dells, 
And    clover  -  bloom    and    sweetbrier 

smells, 
What  songs  of  brooks  and  birds,  what 

fruits  and  flowers, 

Green  woods  and  moonlit  snows,  have  in 
its  round  been  ours  ! 

VII. 

I  know  not  how,  in  other  lands, 

The  changing  seasons  come  and  go  ; 
What  splendors  fall  on  Syrian  sands, 
What  purple  lights  on  Alpine  snow  ! 
Nor  how  the  pomp  of  sunrise  waits 
On  Venice  at  her  watery  gates  ; 
A  dream  alone  to  me  is  Arno's  vale, 
And  the  Alharn bra's  halls  are  but  a  trav 
eller's  tale. 


Yet,  on  life's  current,  he  who  drifts 
Is  one  with  him  who  rows  or  sails  ; 


THE   LAST   WALK   IN   AUTUMN. 


209 


And  he  who  wanders  widest  lifts 

No  more  of  beauty's  jealous  veils 
Than  he  who  from  his  doorway  sees 
The  miracle  of  flowers  and  trees, 
Ifeels  the  warm  Orient  in  the  noonday  air, 
And  from  cloud  minarets  hears  the  sun 
set  call  to  prayer  ! 


The  eye  may  well  be  glad,  that  looks 
Where  Pharpar's  fountains  rise  and 

fall; 
But  he  who  sees  his  native  brooks 

Laugh  in  the  sun,  has  seen  them  all. 
The  marble  palaces  of  Ind 
Rise  round  him  in  the  snow  and  wind  ; 
From  his  lone  sweetbrier  Persian  Hafiz 

smiles, 

And   Rome's   cathedral   awe   is   in   his 
woodland  aisles. 


And  thus  it  is  my  fancy  blends 

The  near  at  hand  and  far  and  rare  ; 
And  while  the  same  horizon  bends 
Above  the  silver-sprinkled  hair 
Which  flashed  the  light  of  morning 

skies 

On  childhood's  wonder-lifted  eyes, 
Within  its  round  of  sea  and  sky  and  field, 
Earth  wheels  with    all   her  zones,   the 
Kosmos  stands  revealed. 


And  thus  the  sick  man  on  his  bed, 

The  toiler  to  his  task-work  bound, 
Behold  their  prison-walls  outspread, 

Their  clipped  horizon  widen  round  ! 
While  freedom-giving  fancy  waits, 
Like  Peter's  angel  at  the  gates, 
The  power  is  theirs  to  baffle  care  and  pain, 
To  bring  the  lost  world  back,  and  make 
it  theirs  again  ! 


What  lack  of  goodly  company, 

When  masters  of  the  ancient  lyre 
Obey  my  call,  and  trace  for  me 

Their  words  of  mingled  tears  and 

fire  ! 

I  talk  with  Bacon,  grave  and  wise, 

I  read  the  world  with  Pascal's  eyes  ; 

And  priest  and  sage,  with  solemn  brows 

austere, 

/Ind  -poets,  garland-bound,  the  Lords  of 
Thought,  draw  near. 
14 


Methinks,  0  friend,  I  hear  thee  say, 

"In  vain  the  human  heart  we  mock  ; 

Bring  living  guests  who  love  the  day, 

Not  ghosts  who  fly  at  crow  of  cock  ! 

The  herbs  we  share  with  flesh  and  blood, 

Are  better  than  ambrosial  food, 

With   laurelled   shades."      I    grant   it, 

nothing  loath, 

But  doubly  blest  is  he  who  can  partake 
of  both. 


He  who  might  Plato's  banquet  grace, 

Have  I  not  seen  before  me  sit, 
And  watched  his  puritanic  face, 

With  more  than  Eastern  wisdom  lit  ? 
Shrewd  mystic  !  who,  upon  the  back 
Of  his  Poor  Richard's  Almanack, 
Writing  the  Sufi's  song,   the  Gentoo's 

dream, 

Links  Menu's  age  of  thought  to  Fulton's 
age  of  steam  ! 


Here  too,  of  answering  love  secure, 

Have  I  not  welcomed  to  my  hearth 
The  gentle  pilgrim  troubadour, 

Whose  songs  have  girdled  half  the 

earth  ; 

Whose  pages,  like  the  magic  mat 
Whereon  the  Eastern  lover  sat, 
Have  borne  me  over  Rhine-land's  purple 

vines, 

And  Nubia's  tawny  sands,  and  Phrygia's 
mountain  pines  ! 


And  he,  who  to  the  lettered  wealth 

Of  ages  adds  the  lore  unpriced, 
The  wisdom  and  the  moral  health, 

The  ethics  of  the  school  of  Christ ; 
The  statesman  to  his  holy  trust, 
As  the  Athenian  archon,  just. 
Struck  down,  exiled  like  him  for  truth 

alone, 

Has  he  riot  graced  iny  home  with  beau  I  y 
all  his  own  ? 

XVIT. 

What  greetings  smile,  what  farewells 

wave, 

What  loved  ones  enter  and  depart  1 
The  good,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 
The  Heaven-lent  treasures  of  thty 
heart  ! 


210 


LATER   POEMS. 


How  conscious  seems  the  frozen  sod 
And  beeclien  slope  whereon  they  trod  ! 
The  oak-leaves  rustle,  and  the  dry  grass 

bends 

Beneath  the  shadowy  feet  of  lost  or  ab 
sent  friends. 

xvm. 

Then  ask  not  why  to  these  bleak  hills 

I  cling,  as  clings  the  tufted  moss, 
To  bear  the  winter's  lingering  chills, 

The  mocking  spring's  perpetual  loss. 
I  dream  of  lands  where  summer  smiles, 
And  soft  winds  blow  from  spicy  isles, 
But   scarce   would   Ceylon's    breath   of 

flowers  be  sweet, 

Could  1  not  feel  thy  soil,  New  England, 
at  my  feet ! 

XIX. 

At  times  I  long  for  gentler  skies, 

And  bathe  in  dreams  of  softer  air, 
But  homesick  tears  would  fill  the  eyes 
That  saw  the  Cross  without  the  Bear. 
The  pine  must  whisper  to  the  palm, 
The  north-wind  break  the  tropic  calm  ; 
And  with  the  dreamy  languor  of  the  Line, 
The    North's    keen   virtue   blend,    and 
strength  to  beauty  join. 


Better  to  stem  with  heart  and  hand 
The  roaring  tide  of  life,  than  lie, 
Unmindful,  on  its  flowery  strand, 
Of  God's  occasions  drifting  by  ! 
Better  with  naked  nerve  to  bear 
The  needles  of  this  goading  air, 
Than,  in  the  lap  of  sensual  ease,  forego 
The  godlike  power  to  do,  the  godlike 
aim  to  know. 

XXI. 

Home  of  my  heart  !  to  me  more  fair 
Than  gay  Versailles  or  Windsor's 

halls, 

The  painted,  shingly  town-house  where 
The  freeman's  vote  for  Freedom  falls  ! 
The  simple  roof  where  prayer  is  made, 
Than  Gothic  groin  and  colonnade  ; 
The  living  temple  of  the  heart  of  man, 
Than    Rome's    sky-mocking    vault,    or 
many-spired  Milan  ! 


More  dear  thy  equal  village  schools, 
Where  rich  and  poor  the  Bible  read, 


Than   classic  halls   where  Priestcraft 

rules, 
And  Learning  wears  the  chains  of 

Creed  ; 

Thy  glad  Thanksgiving,  gathering  in 

The  scattered  sheaves  of  home  and  kin, 

Than  the  mad  license  following  Lenten 

pains, 

Or  holidays  of  slaves  who   laugh  and 
dance  in  chains. 


And  sweet  homes  nestle  in  these  dales, 
And    perch    along    these    wooded 

swells  ; 

And,  blest  beyond  Arcadian  vales, 
They  hear   the  sound   of  Sabbath 

bells  ! 

Here  dwells  no  perfect  man  sublime, 

Nor  woman  winged  before  her  time, 

But  with  the  faults  and  follies  of   the 

race, 

Old  home-bred  virtues   hold  their  not 
unhonored  place. 


Here  manhood  struggles  for  the  sake 

Of  mother,  sister,  daughter,  wife, 
The  graces  and  the  loves  which  make 

The  music  of  the  march  of  life  ; 
And  woman,  in  her  daily  round 
Of  duty,  walks  on  holy  ground. 
No  unpaid  menial  tills  the  soil,  nor  here 
Is  the  bad  lesson  learned  at  human  rights 
to  sneer. 

xxv. 

Then  let  the  icy  north-wind  blow 

The  trumpets  of  the  coming  storm, 
To  arrowy  sleet  and  blinding  snow 

Yon  slanting  lines  of  rain  transform. 
Young  hearts  shall  hail  the  drifted 

cold, 

As  gayly  as  I  did  of  old  ; 
And  I,  who  watch  them  through  the 

frosty  pane, 

Unenvious,  live  in  them  my  boyhood 
o'er  again. 


And  I  will  trust  that  He  who  heeds 
The   life  that  hides  in  mead   and 

wold, 

Who  hangs  yon  alder's  crimson  beads, 
And  stains  these  mosses  green  and 
gold, 


BURIAL   OF  BARBOUR. 


211 


Will  still,  as  He  hath  done,  incline 

His  gracious  care  to  me  and  mine  ; 

Grant  what  we  ask  aright,  from  wrong 

debar, 

And,  as  the  earth  grows   dark,   make 
brighter  every  star  ! 

XXVII. 

I  have  not  seen,  I  may  not  see, 
My  hopes  for  man  take   form  in 

fact, 
But  God  will  give  the  victory 

In  due  time  ;  in  that  faith  I  act. 
And  he  who  sees  the  future  sure, 
The  baffling  present  may  endure, 
And  bless,  meanwhile,  the  unseen  Hand 

that  leads 

The  heart's  desires  beyond  the  halting 
step  of  deeds. 

XXVIII. 

And  thou,  my  song,  I  send  thee  forth, 
Where  harsher  songs  of  mine  have 

flown  ; 
Go,  find  a  place  at  home  and  hearth 

Where'er  thy  singer's  name  is  known ; 
Kevive  for  him  the  kindly  thought 
Of  friends  ;   and  they  who  love  him 

not, 

Touched  by  some  strain  of  thine,  per 
chance  may  take 

The  hand  he  proffers  all,  and  thank  him 
for  thy  sake. 


THE  MAYFLOWERS. 

The  trailing  arbutus,  or  mayflower,  grows 
abundantly  in  the  vicinity  of  Plymouth,  and 
was  the  first  flower  that  greeted  the  Pilgrims 
after  their  fearful  winter. 

SAD  Mayflower  !  watched  by  winter  stars, 
And  nursed  by  winter  gales, 

With  petals  of  the  sleeted  spars, 
And  leaves  of  frozen  sails  ! 

What  had  she  in  those  dreary  hours, 
Within  her  ice-rimmed  bay, 

Jn  common  with  the  wild- wood  flowers, 
The  first  sweet  smiles  of  May  ?  • 

Set,    "God  be  praised!"  the  Pilgrim 
said, 

Who  saw  the  blossoms  peer 
Above  the  brown  leaves,  dry  and  dead, 

"  Behold  our  Mayflower  here  !  " 


"  God  wills  it :  here  our  rest  shall  be, 
Our  years  of  wandering  o'er, 

For  us  the  Mayflower  of  the  sea 
Shall  spread  her  sails  no  more." 

0  sacred  flowers  of  faith  and  hope, 

As  sweetly  now  as  then 
Ye  bloom  on  many  a  birchen  slope, 

In  many  a  pine-dark  glen. 

Behind  the  sea- wall's  rugged  length, 
Unchanged,  your  leaves  unfold, 

Like  love  behind  the  manly  strength 
Of  the  brave  hearts  of  old. 

So  live  the  fathers  in  their  sons, 

Their  sturdy  faith  be  ours, 
And  ours  the  love  that  overruns 

Its  rocky  strength  with  flowers. 

The  Pilgrim's  wild  and  wintry  day 
Its  shadow  round  us  draws  ; 

The  Mayflower  of  his  stormy  bay, 
Our  Freedom's  struggling  cause. 

But  warmer  suns  erelong  shall  bring 

To  life  the  frozen  sod  ; 
And,  through  dead  leaves  of  hope,  shall 
spring 

Afresh  the  flowers  of  God  ! 


BURIAL  OF   BARBOUR. 

BEAU  him,  comrades,  to  his  grave  ; 
Never  over  one  more  brave 

Shall  the  prairie  grasses  weep, 
In  the  ages  yet  to  come, 
When  the  millions  in  our  room, 

What  we  sow  in  tears,  shall  reap. 

Bear  him  up  the  icy  hill, 
With  the  Kansas,  frozen  still 

As  his  noble  heart,  below, 
And  the  land  he  came  to  till 
With  a  freeman's  thews  and  will, 

And  his  poor  hut  roofed  with  snow  I 

One  more  look  of  that  dead  face, 
Of  his  murder's  ghastly  trace  ! 

One  more  kiss,  0  widowed  one  ! 
Lay  your  left  hands  on  his  brow, 
Lift  your  right  hands  up,  and  vow 

That  his  work  shall  yet  be  done. 

Patience,  friends  !     The  eye  of  God 
Every  path  by  Murder  trod 


212 


LATER  POEMS. 


Watches,  lidless,  day  and  night ; 
And  the  dead  man  in  his  shroud, 
And  his  widow  weeping  loud, 

And  our  hearts,  are  in  his  sight. 

Every  deadly  threat  that  swells 
With  the  roar  of  gambling  hells, 

Every  brutal  jest  and  jeer, 
Every  wicked  thought  and  plan 
Of  the  cruel  heart  of  man, 

Though  but  whispered,  He  can  hear ! 

We  in  suffering,  they  in  crime, 
Wait  the  just  award  of  time, 

Wait  the  vengeance  that  is  due  ; 
Not  in  vain  a  heart  shall  break, 
Not  a  tear  for  Freedom's  sake 

Fall  unheeded  :  God  is  true. 

While  the  flag  with  stars  bedecked 
Threatens  where  it  should  protect, 

And    the    Law     shakes    hands    with 

Crime, 

What  is  left  us  but  to  wait, 
Match  our  patience  to  our  fate, 

And  abide  the  better  time  ? 

Patience,  friends  !     The  human  heart 
Everywhere  shall  take  our  part, 

Everywhere  for  us  shall  pray  ; 
On  our  side  are  nature's  laws, 
And  God's  life  is  in  the  cause 

That  we  suffer  for  to-day. 

Well  to  suffer  is  divine  ; 

Pass  the  watchword  down  the  line, 

Pass  the  countersign  :   "ENDURE." 
Not  to  him  who  rashly  dares, 
But  to  him  who  nobly  bears, 

Is  the  victor's  garland  sure. 

Frozen  earth  to  frozen  breast, 
Lay  our  slain  one  down  to  rest ; 

Lay  him  down  in  hope  and  faith, 
And  above  the  .broken  sod, 
Once  again,  to  Freedom's  God, 

Pledge  ourselves  for  life  or  death, 

That  the  State  whose  walls  we  lay, 
In  our  blood  and  tears,  to-day, 

Shall  be  free  from  bonds  of  shame 
And  our  goodly  land  untrod 
By  the  feet  of  Slavery,  shod 

With  cursing  as  with  flame  ! 

Plant  the  Buckeye  on  his  grave, 
For  the  hunter  of  the  slave 


In  its  shadow  cannot  rest ; 
And  let  martyr  mound  and  tree 
Be  our  pledge  and  guaranty 

Of  the  freedom  of  the  West  ! 


TO   PENNSYLVANIA. 

0  STATE  prayer-founded  !  never  hung 
Such  choice  upon  a  people's  tongue, 

Such  power  to  bless  or  ban, 
*As  that  which  makes  thy  whisper  Fate, 
For  which  on  thee  the  centuries  wait, 

And  destinies  of  man  ! 

Across  thy  Alleghanian  chain, 
With  groan  ings  from  a  land  in  pain, 

The  west- wind  finds  its  way  : 
Wild-wailing  from  Missouri's" flood 
The  crying  of  thy  children's  blood 

Is  in  thy  ears  to-day  ! 

And  unto  thee  in  Freedom's  hour 
Of  sorest  need  God  gives  the  power 

To  ruin  or  to  save  ; 
To  wound  or  heal,  to  blight  or  bless 
With  fertile  field  or  wilderness, 

A  free  home  or  a  grave  ! 

Then  let  thy  virtue  match  the  crime, 
Rise  to  a  level  with  the  time  ; 

And,  if  a  son  of  thine 
Betray  or  tempt  thee,  Brutus-like 
For  Fatherland  and  Freedom  strike 

As  Justice  gives  the  sign. 

Wake,  sleeper,  from  thy  dream  of  ease, 
The  great  occasion's  forelock  seize  ; 

And,  let  the  north-wind  strong, 
And  golden  leaves  of  autumn,  be 
Thy  coronal  of  Victory 

tind  thy  triumphal  song. 
10*A  mo.,  1856. 


THE   PASS   OF   THE   SIERRA. 

ALL  night  above  their  rocky  bed 
They  saw  the  stars  march  slow  ; 

The  'wild  Sierra  overhead, 
The  desert's  death  below. 

The  Indian  from  his  lodge  of  bark, 
The  gray  bear  from  his  den, 

Beyond  their  camp-fire's  wall  of  dark 
Glared  on  the  mountain  men. 


THE   CONQUEST   OF  FINLAND. 


213 


Still  upward  turned,  with  anxious  strain, 

Their  leader's  sleepless  eye, 
Where  splinters  of  the  mountain  chain 

Stood  black  against  the  sky. 

The  night  waned  slow  :  at  last,  a  glow, 

A  gleam  of  sudden  fire, 
Shot  up  behind  the  walls  of  snow, 

And  tipped  each  icy  spire. 

"Up,    men!"    he   cried,    "yon   rocky 
cone, 

To-day,  please  God,  we  '11  pass, 
And  look  from  Winter's  frozen  throne 

On  Summer's  flowers  and  grass  !  " 

They  set  their  faces  to  the  blast, 

They  trod  the  eternal  snow, 
And  faint,  worn,  bleeding,  hailed  at  last 

The  promised  land  below. 

Behind,  they  saw  the  snow-cloud  tossed 

By  many  an  icy  horn  ; 
Before,  warm  valleys,  wood-embossed, 

And  green  with  vines  and  corn. 

They  left  the  Winter  at  their  backs 

To  flap  his  baffled  wing, 
And  downward,  with  the  cataracts, 

Leaped  to  the  kp  of  Spring. 

Strong  leader  of  that  mountain  band, 

Another  task  remains, 
To  break  from  Slavery's  desert  land 

A  path  to  Freedom's  plains. 

The  winds  are  wild,  the  way  is  drear, 
Yet,  flashing  through  the  night, 

Lo  !  icy  ridge  and  rocky  spear 
Blaze  out  in  morning  light  ! 

Rise  up,  FREMONT  !  and  go  before  ; 

The  Hour  must  have  its  Man  ; 
Put  on  the  hunting-shirt  once  more, 

And  lead  in  Freedom's  van  ! 
%tn  mo.,  1856. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  FINLAND.65 

ACROSS  the  frozen  marshes 
The  winds  of  autumn  blow, 

And  the  fen-lands  of  the  Wetter 
Are  white  with  early  snow. 

But  where  the  low,  gray  headlands 
Look  o'er  the  Baltic  brine, 


A  bark  is  sailing  in  the  track 
Of  England's  battle-line. 

No  wares  hath  she  to  barter 
For  Bothnia's  fish  and  grain  ; 

She  saileth  not  for  pleasure, 
She  saileth  not  for  gain. 

But  still  by  isle  or  mainland 
She  drops  her  anchor  down, 

Where'er  the  British  cannon 
Rained  fire  on  tower  and  town. 

Outspake  the  ancient  Amtman, 
At  the  gate  of  Helsingfors  : 

"  Why  comes  this  ship  a- spying 
In  the  track  of  England's  wars  ?  " 

"God  bless  her,"  said  the  coast-guard,- 
"  God  bless  the  ship,  I  say. 

The  holy  angels  trim  the  sails 
That  speed  her  on  her  way  ! 

"Where'er  she  drops  her  anchor, 
The  peasant's  heart  is  glad  ; 

Where'er  she  spreads  her  parting  sail, 
The  peasant's  heart  is  sad. 

"  Each  wasted  town  and  hamlet 

She  visits  to  restore  ; 
To  roof  the  shattered  cabin, 

And  feed  the  starving  poor. 

"  The  sunken  boats  of  fishers, 
The  foraged  beeves  and  grain, 

The  spoil  of  flake  and  storehouse, 
The  good  ship  brings  again. 

And  so  to  Finland's  sorrow 
The  sweet  amend  is  made, 
As  if  the  healing  hand  of  Christ 
Upon  her  wounds  were  laid  !  " 

Then  said  the  gray  old  Amtman, 
"  The  will  of  God  be  done  ! 

The  battle  lost  by  England's  hate, 
By  England's  love  is  won  ! 

'  We  braved  the  iron  tempest 

That  thundered  on  our  shore  ; 
But  when  did  kindness  fail  to  find 
The  key  to  Finland's  door  ? 

"  No  more  from  Aland's  ramparts 
Shall  warning  signal  come, 

Nor  startled  Sweaborg  hear  again 
The  roll  of  midnight  drum. 


214 


LATER   POEMS. 


"  Beside  our  fierce  Black  Eagle 
The  Dove  of  Peace  shall  rest  ; 

And  in  the  mouths  of  cannon 
The  sea-bird  make  her  nest. 

"  For  Finland,  looking  seaward, 

No  coming  foe  shall  scan  ; 
And  the  holy  bells  of  Abo 

Shall  ring,  '  Good-will  to  man  ! ' 

"Then  row  thy  boat,  0  fisher  ! 

In  peace  on  lake  and  bay  ; 
And  thou,  young  maiden,  dance  again 

Around  the  poles  of  May  ! 

"  Sit  down,  old  men,  together, 

Old  wives,  in  quiet  spin  ; 
Henceforth  the  Anglo-Saxon 

Is  the  brother  of  the  Finn  !  " 


A   LAY   OF   OLD   TIME. 

WRITTEN      FOR      THE      ESSEX       COUNTY 
AGRICULTURAL   FAIR. 

ONE  morning  of  the  first  sad  Fall, 

Poor  Adam  and  his  bride 
Sat  in  the  shade  of  Eden's  wall  — 

But  on  the  outer  side. 

She,  blushing  in  her  fig-leaf  suit 

For  the  chaste  garb  of  old  ; 
He,  sighing  o'er  his  bitter  fruit 

For  Eden's  drupes  of  gold. 

Behind  them,  smiling  in  the  morn, 

Their  forfeit  garden  lay, 
Before  them,  wild  with  rock  and  thorn, 

The  desert  stretched  away. 

They  heard  the  air  above  them  fanned, 

A  light  step  on  the  sward, 
And  lo  !  they  saw  before  them  stand 

The  angel  of  the  Lord  ! 

"  Arise,"  he  said,  "  why  look  behind, 

When  hope  is  all  before, 
And  patient  hand  and  willing  mind, 

Your  loss  may  yet  restore  ? 

"  I  leave  with  you  a  spell  whose  power 

Can  make  the  desert  glad, 
&nd  call  around  you  fruit  and  flower 

As  fair  as  Eden  had. 

•'  I  clothe  your  hands  with  power  to  lift 
The  curse  from  off  your  soil ; 


Your  very  doom  shall  seem  a  gift, 
Your  loss  a  gain  through  Toil. 

"Go,  cheerful  as  yon  humming-bees, 

To  labor  as  to  play." 
White  glimmering  over  Eden's  trees 

The  angel  passed  away. 

The  pilgrims  of  the  world  went  forth 

Obedient  to  the  word, 
And  found  where'er  they  tilled  the  earth 

A  garden  of  the  Lord  ! 

The  thorn-tree  cast  its  evil  fruit 
And  blushed  with  plum  and  pear, 

And  seeded  grass  and  trodden  root 
Grew  sweet  beneath  their  care. 

We  share  our  primal  parents'  fate, 

And  in  our  turn  and  day, 
Look  back  on  Eden's  sworded  gate 

As  sad  and  lost  as  they. 

But  still  for  us  his  native  skies 

The  pitying  Angel  leaves, 
And  leads  through  Toil  to  Paradise 

New  Adams  and  new  Eves  ! 


WHAT   OF  THE  DAY? 

A  SOUND  of  tumult  troubles  all  the  air, 
Like  the  low  thunders  of  a  sultry  sky 

Far-rolling  ere  the  downright  lightnings 

glare  ; 
The   hills   blaze  red  with  warnings  ; 

foes  draw  nigh, 

Treading  the  dark  with  challenge  and 
reply. 

Behold    the    burden   of    the   prophet's 
vision,  — 

The   gathering   hosts,  —  the  Valley   of 

Decision, 

Dusk  with  the  wings  of  eagles  wheel 
ing  o'er. 

Day  of  the  Lord,  of  darkness  and  not 

light  ! 

It  breaks  in  thunder  and  the  whirl 
wind's  roar  ! 

Even    so,    Father  !      Let    thy   will   be 
done,  — 

Turn  and  o'erturn,  end  what  thou  hast 
begun 

In  judgment  or  in  mercy  :  as  for  me, 

If  but  the  least  and  frailest,  let  me  be 

Evermore  numbered  with  the  truly  frde 

Who  find  thy  service  perfect  liberty  ) 


MY  NAMESAKE. 


215 


I  fain  would  thank  Thee  that  my  mor 
tal  life 
Has  reached  the  hour  (albeit  through 

care  and  pain) 

When  Good  and  Evil,  as  for  final  strife, 
Close  dim  and  vast  on  Armageddon's 

plain  ; 

And  Michael  and  his  angels  once  again 
Drive  howling  back  the  Spirits  of  the 

Night. 

0  for  the  faith  to  read  the  signs  aright 
And,  from  the  angle  of  thy  perfect  sight, 
See  Truth's  white  banner  floating  on 

before  ; 
And  the  Good  Cause,  despite  of  venal 

friends, 
And  base  expedients,  move  to  noble 

ends  ; 
See  Peace  with  Freedom  make  to  Time 

amends, 
And,    through   its   cloud   of  dust,    the 

threshing-floor, 
Flailed  by  the  thunder,  heaped  with 

chaffless  grain  ! 
1367. 


THE  FIRST  FLOWERS. 

FOR  ages  on  our  river  borders, 

These  tassels  in  their  tawny  bloom, 

And  willowy  studs  of  downy  silver, 
Have  prophesied  of  Spring  to  come. 

For  ages  have  the  unbound  waters 
Smiled  on  them  from  their  pebbly  hem, 

And  the  clear  carol  of  the  robin 

And  song  of  bluebird  welcomed  them. 

But  never  yet  from  smiling  river, 
Or  song  of  early  bird,  have  they 

Been  greeted  with  a  gladder  welcome 
Than  whispers  from  my  heart  to-day. 

They  break  the  spell  of  cold  and  dark 
ness, 

The  weary  watch  of  sleepless  pain  ; 
And  from  my  heart,  as  from  the  river, 

The  ice  of  winter  melts  again. 

Thanks,  Mary  !  for  this  wild-wood  token 
Of  Freya's  footsteps  drawing  near  ; 

Almost,  as  in  the  rune  of  Asgard, 
The  growing  of  the  grass  1  hear. 

It  is  as  if  the  pine-trees  called  me 
From  ceiled  room  and  silent  books, 


To  see  the  dance  of  woodland  shadows, 
And  hear  the  song  of  April  brooks  ! 

As  in  the  old  Teutonic  ballad 

Live  singing  bird  and  flowering  tree, 

Together  live  in  bloom  and  music, 
I  blend  in  song  thy  flowers  and  thee. 

Earth's  rocky  tablets  bear  forever 

The  dint  of  rain  and  small  bird's  track  * 

Who  knows  but  that  my  idle  verses 
May  leave  some  trace  by  Merrimack  ! 

The  bird  that  trod  the  mellow  layers 

Of  the  young  earth  is  sought  in  vain  ; 
The  cloud  is  gone  that  wove  the  sand 
stone, 

From  God's  design,  with  threads  of 
rain  ! 

So,  when  this  fluid  age  we  live  in 

Shall  stiffen  round  my  careless  rhyme, 

Who  made  the  vagrant  tracks  may  puzzle 
The  savans  of  the  coming  time  : 

And,  following  out  their  dim  suggestions, 
Some  idly-curious  hand  may  draw 

My  doubtful  portraiture,  as  Cuvier 
Drew  fish  and  bird  from  fin  and  claw. 

And  maidens  in  the  far-off  twilights, 
Singing  my  words  to  breeze  and  stream, 

Shall  wonder  if  the  old-time  Mary 
Were  real,  or  the  rhymer's  dream  ! 

1st  3d  mo.,  1857. 


MY  NAMESAKE. 

You  scarcely  need  my  tardy  thanks, 
Who,  self- rewarded,  nurse  and  tend  — • 

A  green  leaf  on  your  own  Green  Banks  — 
The  memory  of  your  friend. 

For  me,  no  wreath,  bloom-woven,  hides 
The  sobered  brow  and  lessening  hair  : 

For  aught  I  know,  the  myrtled  sides 
Of  Helicon  are  bare. 

Their  scallop-shells  so  many  bring 
The  fabled  founts  of  song  to  try, 

They  've  drained,  for  aught  I  know,  the 

spring 
Of  Aganippe  dry. 

Ah  well  !  —  The  wreath  the  Muses  braid 
Proves  often  Folly's  cap  and  bell ; 


216 


LATER   POEMS. 


Methinks,  my  ample  beaver's  shade 
May  serve  my  turn  as  well. 

Let  Love's  and  Friendship's  tender  debt 
Be  paid  by  those  I  love  in  life. 

Why  should  the  unborn  critic  whet 
For  me  his  scalping-knife  ? 

Why  should  the  stranger  peer  and  pry 
One's  vacant  house  of  life  about, 

And  drag  for  curious  ear  and  eye 
His  faults  and  jollies  out  ?  — 

Why  stuff,  for  fools  to  gaze  upon, 

With  chaff  of  words,  the  garb  he  wore, 

As  corn-husks  when  the  ear  is  gone 
Are  rustled  all  the  more  ? 

Let  kindly  Silence  close  again, 
The  picture  vanish  from  the  eye, 

And  on  the  dim  and  misty  main 
Let  the  small  ripple  die. 

Yet  not  the  less  I  own  your  claim 

To   grateful   thanks,    dear   friends  of 
mine. 

Hang,  if  it  please  you  so,  my  name 
Upon  your  household  line. 

Let  Fame  from  brazen  lips  blow  wide 
Her  chosen  names,  I  envy  none  : 

A  mother's  love,  a  father's  pride, 
Shall  keep  alive  my  own  ! 

Still  shall  that  name  as  now  recall 
The    young    leaf   wet   with   morning 
dew, 

The  glory  where  the  sunbeams  fall 
The  breezy  woodlands  through. 

That  name  shall  be  a  household  word, 
A  spell  to  waken  srnile  or  sigh  ; 

In  many  an  evening  prayer  be  heard 
And  cradle  lullaby. 

And  thou,  dear  child,  in  riper  days 
When  asked  the  reason  of  thy  name, 

Shalt  answer  :     ' '  One  't  were  vain  to 

praise 
Or  censure  bore  the  same. 

"  Some  blamed  him,  some  believed  him 

good, — 
The  truth  lay   doubtless   'twixt    the 

two,  — 

He  reconciled  as  best  he  could 
Old  faith  and  fancies  new. 


"  In  him  the  grave  and  playful  mixed, 
And  wisdom  held  with  folly  truce, 

And  Nature  compromised  betwixt 
Good  fellow  and  recluse. 

'*  He  loved  his  friends,  forgave  his  foes ; 

And,  if  his  words  were  harsh  at  times, 
He  spared  his  fellow-men,  —  his  blows 

Fell  only  on  their  crimes. 

"  He  loved  the  good  and  wise,  but  found 
His  human  heart  to  all  akin 

Who  met  him  on  the  common  ground 
Of  suffering  and  of  sin. 

"  Whate'er  his  neighbors  might  endure 
Of  pain  or  grief  his  own  became  ; 

For  all  the  ills  he  could  not  cure 
He  held  himself  to  blame. 

' '  His  good  was  mainly  an  intent, 
His  evil  not  of  forethought  done  ; 

The  work  he  wrought  was  rarely  meant 
Or  finished  as  begun. 

"  111  served  his  tides  of  feeling  strong 
To  turn  the  common  mills  of  use  ; 

And,  over  restless  wings  of  song, 
His  birthright  garb  hung  loose  ! 

"  His  eye  was  beauty's  powerless  slave, 
And  his  the  ear  which  discord  pains  • 

Few  guessed  beneath  his  aspect  grave 
What  passions  strove  in  chains. 

"  He  had  his  share  of  care  and  pain, 
No  holiday  was  life  to  him  ; 

Still  in  the  heirloom  cup  we  drain 
The  bitter  drop  will  swim. 

"  Yet  Heaven  was  kind,  and  here  a  bin} 
And  there  a  flower  beguiled  his  way  ; 

And,  cool,  in  summer  noons,  he  heard 
The  fountains  plash  and  play. 

"  On  all  his  sad  or  restless  moods 
The  patient  peace  of  Nature  stole  ; 

The  quiet  of  the  fields  and  woods 
Sank  deep  into  his  soul. 

"  He  worshipped  as  his  fathers  did, 
And  kept  the  faith  of  childish  days, 

And,  howsoe'er  he  strayed  or  slid, 
He  loved  the  good  old  ways. 

"  The  simple  tastes,  the  kindly  traits, 
The  tranquil  air,  and  gentle  speech, 


MY   NAMESAKE. 


217 


The  silence  of  the  soul  that  waits 
For  more  than  man  to  teach. 

"The  cant  of  party,  school,  and  sect, 
Provoked  at  times  his  honest  scorn, 

And  Folly,  in  its  gray  respect, 
He  tossed  on  satire's  horn. 

"  But  still  his  heart  was  full  of  awe 
And  reverence  for  all  sacred  things  ; 

And,  brooding  over  form  and  law, 
He  saw  the  Spirit's  wings  ! 

' '  Life's  mystery  wrapt  him  like  a  cloud  ; 

He  heard  far  voices  mock  his  own, 
The  sweep  of  wings  unseen,  the  loud, 

Long  roll  of  waves  unknown. 

"  The  arrows  of  his  straining  sight 
Fell  quenched  in  darkness  ;  priest  and 
sage, 

Like  lost  guides  calling  left  and  right, 
Perplexed  his  doubtful  age. 

"  Like  childhood,  listening  for  the  sound 
Of  its  dropped  pebbles  in  the  well, 

All  vainly  down  the  dark  profound 
His  brief-lined  plummet  fell. 

"So,  scattering  flowers  with  pious  pains 
On  old  beliefs,  of  later  creeds, 

Which  claimed  a  place  in  Truth's  do 
mains, 
He  asked  the  title-deeds. 

"He   saw  the    old-time's    groves    and 
shrines 

In  the  long  distance  fair  and  dim  ; 
And  heard,  like  sound  of  far-off  pines, 

The  century-mellowed  hymn  ! 

"  He  dared  not  mock  the  Dervish  whirl, 
The  Brahmin's  rite,  the  Lama  s  spell ; 

G-od  knew  the  heart ;  Devotion's  pearl 
Might  sanctify  the  shell. 

u  While  others  trod  the  altar  stairs 
He  faltered  like  the  publican  ; 


And,  while  they  praised  as  saints,   his 

prayers 
"Were  those  of  sinful  man. 

"  For,  awed  by  Sinai's  Mount  of  Law, 
The  trembling  faith  alone  sufficed, 

That,  through  its  cloud  and  flame,  he 

saw 
The  sweet,  sad  face  of  Christ !  — 

"  And  listening,  with  his  forehead  bowed, 
Heard  the  Divine  compassion  fill 

The  pauses  of  the  trump  and  cloud 
With  whispers  small  and  still. 

"  The  words  he  spake,   the  thoughts  he 
penned, 

Are  mortal  as  his  hand  and  brain, 
But,  if  they  served  the  Master's  end, 

He  has  not  lived  in  vain  !  " 

Heaven    make    thee    better    than    thy 

name, 
Child   of  my   friends  !  —  For  thee  I 

crave 

What  riches  never  bought,  nor  fame 
To  mortal  longing  gave. 

I  pray  the  prayer  of  Plato  old  : 
God  make  thee  beautiful  within, 

And  let  thine  eyes  the  good  behold 
In  everything  save  sin ! 

Imagination  held  in  check 

To  serve,  not  rule,  thy  poised  mind ; 
Thy  Reason,  at  the  frown  or  beck 

Of  Conscience,  loose  or  bind. 

N"o  dreamer  thou,  but  real  all,  — 

Strong  manhood   crowning    vigorous 
youth  ; 

Life  made  by  duty  epical 
And  rhythmic  with  the  truth. 

So  shall  that  life  the  fruitage  yield 
Which  trees  of  healing  only  give, 

And  green-leafed  in  the  Eternal  field 
Of  God,  forever  live  ! 


218 


HOME    BALLADS. 


HOME    BALLADS. 


I  CALL  the  old  time  back  :  I  bring  these 

lays 
To  thee,  in  memory  of  the  summer 

days 
When,  by  our  native  streams  and  forest 

ways, 

We  dreamed  them  over  ;  while  the  rivu 
lets  made 

Songs  of  their  own,  and  the  great  pine- 
trees  laid 

On  warm  noon-lights  the  masses  of  their 
shade. 

And  she  was  with  us,  living  o'er  again 
Her  life  in  ours,  despite  of  years  and 

pain,  — 
The   autumn's   brightness    after    latter 

rain. 

Beautiful  in  her  holy  peace  as  one 
Who  stands,  at  evening,  when  the  work 

is  done, 
Glorified  in  the  setting  of  the  sun  ! 

Her  memory  makes  our  common  land 
scape  seem 

Fairer  than  any  of  which  painters 
dream, 

Lights  the  brown  hills  and  sings  in 
every  stream ; 

For  she  whose  speech  was  always  tmth's 

pure  gold 
Heard,  not  unpleased,  its  simple  legends 

told, 
And  loved  with  us  the  beautiful  and 

old. 


THE   WITCH'S   DAUGHTER. 

IT  was  the  pleasant  harvest  time, 
When  cellar-bins  are  closely  stowed, 
And  garrets  bend  beneath  their  load, 

4nd  the  old  swallow-haunted  barns  — 
Brown-gabled,  long,  and  full  of  seams 
Through   which  the   moted   sunlight 
streams, 


And  winds  blow  freshly  in,  to  shake 
The  red  plumes  of  the  roosted  cocks, 
And    the    loose    hay-mow's    scented 
locks  — 

Are  filled  with  summer's  ripened  stores, 
Its  odorous  grass  and  barley  sheaves, 
From  their  low  scaffolds  to  their  eaves. 

On  Esek  Harden's  oaken  floor, 

With    many    an    autumn    threshing 

worn, 
Lay  the  heaped  ears  of  unhusked  corn. 

And  thither  came  young  men  and  maids, 
Beneath  a  moon  that,  large  and  low, 
Lit  that  sweet  eve  of  long  ago. 

They  took  their  places  ;  some  by  chance, 
And  others  by  a  merry  voice 
Or  sweet  smile  guided  to  their  choice. 

How  pleasantly  the  rising  moon, 
Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows, 
Looked   on  them   through  the   great 
elm-boughs  !  — 

On  sturdy  boyhood  sun-embrowned, 
On  girlhood  with  its  solid  curves 
Of    healthful   strength   and   painless 
nerves  ! 

And  jests  went  round,  and  laughs  that 

made 

The  house-dog  answer  with  his  howl, 
And  kept  astir  the  barn-yard  fowl ; 

And    quaint    old    songs    their    fathers 

sung, 

In  Derby  dales  and  Yorkshire  moors, 
Ere     Norman     William    trod      their 

shores  ; 

And  tales,  whose  merry  license  shook 
The  fat  sides  of  the  Saxon  thane, 
Forgetful  of  the  hovering  Dane  ! 

But  still  the  sweetest  voice  was  mute 
That  river- valley  ever  heard 
From  lip  of  maid  or  throat  of  bird  ; 


THE  WITCH'S  DAUGHTEE. 


219 


For  Mabel  Martin  sat  apart, 
And  let  the  hay-mow's  shadow  fall 
Upon  the  loveliest  face  of  all. 

She  sat  apart,  as  one  forbid, 

Who  knew  that  none  would  conde 
scend 

To  own  the  Witch- wife's  child  a 
friend. 

The  seasons  scarce  had  gone  their  round, 
Since  curious  thousands  thronged  to 

see 
Her  mother  on  the  gallows-tree  ; 

And  mocked  the  palsied  limbs  of  age, 
That  faltered  on  the  fatal  stairs, 
And    wan    lip    trembling    with    its 
prayers  ! 

Few  questioned  of  the  sorrowing  child, 
Or,  when  they  saw  the  mother  die, 
Dreamed  of  the  daughter's  agony. 

They  went  up  to  their  homes  that  day, 
As  men  and  Christians  justified  : 
God  willed  it,  and  the  wreteh  had 
died! 

Dear  God  and  Father  of  us  all, 
Forgive  our  faith  in  cruel  lies,  — 
Forgive  the  blindness  that  denies  ! 

Forgive  thy  creature  when  he  takes, 
For  the  all-perfect  love  thou  art, 
Some  giim  creation  of  his  heart. 

Cast  down  our  idols,  overturn 
Our  bloody  altars  ;  let  us  see 
Thyself  in  thy  humanity  ! 

Poor  Mabel  from  her  mother's  grave 
Crept  to  her  desolate  hearth-stone, 
And  wrestled  with  her  fate  alone  ; 

With  love,  and  anger,  and  despair, 
The  phantoms  of  disordered  sense, 
The  awful  doubts  of  Providence  ! 

The    school-boys   jeered    her    as    they 

passed, 
And,  when  she  sought  the  house  of 

prayer, 
Her  mother's  curse  pursued  her  there. 

4.nd  still  o'er  many  a  neighboring  door 
She  saw  the  horseshoe's  curved  charm, 
To  guard  against  her  mother's  harm  ;  — 


That    mother,     poor,    and    sick,    and 

lame, 

Who  daily,  by  the  old  arm-chair, 
Folded  her  withered  hands  in  pray 
er  ;  — 

Who  turned,  in  Salem's  dreary  jail, 
Her  worn  old  Bible  o'er  and  o'er, 
When   her   dim   eyes   could  read  no 
more  ! 

Sore  tried  and  pained,    the  poor  girj 

kept 
Her  faith,  and  trusted  that  her 

way, 
So  dark,  would  somewhere  meet  the 

day. 

And  still  her  weary  wheel  went  round 
Day  after  day,  with  no  relief  ; 
Small  leisure  have  the  poor  for  grief. 

So  in  the  shadow  Mabel  sits  ; 

Untouched  by  mirth    she   sees    and 

hears, 
Her  smile  is  sadder  than  her  tears. 

But  cruel  eyes  have  found  her  out, 
And  cruel  lips  repeat  her  name, 
And  taunt   her    with    her    mother's 
shame. 

She  answered  not  with  railing  words, 
But  drew  her  apron  o'er  her  face, 
And,  sobbing,  glided  from  the  place. 

And  only  pausing  at  the  door, 

Her  sad  eyes  rhet  the  troubled  gaze 
Of  one  who,  in  her  better  days, 

Had  been  her  warm  and  steady  friend, 
Ere  yet  her  mother's  doom  had  made 
Even  Esek  Harden  half  afraid. 

He  felt  that  mute  appeal  of  tears, 
And,  starting,  with  an  angry  frown 
Hushed    all    the     wicked    murmurs 
down. 

"Good    neighbors    mine,"   he    sternly 

said, 

"  This  passes  harmless  mirth  or  jest ; 
I  brook  no  insult  to  my  guest. 

"  She  is  indeed  her  mother's  child ; 
But  God's  sweet  pity  ministers 
Unto  no  whiter  soul  than  hers. 


220 


HOME   BALLADS. 


"  Let  Goody  Martin  rest  in  peace  ; 
I  never  knew  her  harm  a  fly, 
And  witch  ornot,  God  knows,  —  not  I . 

"  I  know  who  swore  her  life  away  ; 
And,  as  God  lives,  I  "d  not  condemn 
An  Indian  dog  on  word  of  them." 

The  broadest  lands  in  all  the  town, 
The  skill  to  guide,  the  power  to  awe, 
Were  Harden's  ;   and   his   word   was 
law. 

None  dared  withstand  him  to  his  face, 
But  one  sly  maiden  spake  aside  : 
"  The  little  witch  is  evil-eyed  ! 

"  Her  mother  only  killed  a  cow, 
Or  witched  a  churn  or  dairy-pan  ; 
But    she,    forsooth,    must    charm    a 
man  ! " 

Poor  Mabel,  in  her  lonely  home, 
Sat  by  the  window's  narrow  pane, 
White  in  the  moonlight's  silver  rain. 

The  river,  on  its  pebbled  rim, 

Made  music  such  as  childhood  knew  ; 
The    door-yard    tree  was    whispered 
through 

By  voices  such  as  childhood's  ear 
Had  heard  in  moonlights  long  ago  ; 
And  through  the  willow-boughs  below 

She  saw  the  rippled  waters  shine  ; 
Beyond,  in  waves  of  shade  and  light 
The  hills  rolled  off  into  the  night. 

Sweet  sounds  and  pictures  mocking  so 
The  sadness  of  her  human  lot, 
She  saw  and  heard,  but  heeded  not. 

She  strove  to  drown  her  sense  of  wrong, 
And,  in  her  old  and  simple  way, 
To  teach  her  bitter  heart  to  pray. 

Poor  child  !  the  prayer,  begun  in  faith, 
Grew  to  a  low,  despairing  cry 
Of  utter  misery  :   "  Let  me  die  ! 

"  Oh  !  take  me  from  the  scornful  eyes, 
And  hide  me  where  the  cruel  speech 
And  mocking  finger  may  not  reach  ! 

"  I  dare  not  breathe  my  mother's  name  : 
A  daughter's  right  I  dare  not  crave 
To  weep  above  her  unblest  grave  ! 


"  Let  me  not  live  until  my  heart, 
With  few  to  pity,  and  with  none 
To  love  me,  hardens  into  stone. 

'  0  God  !  have  mercy  on  thy  child, 
Whose  faith  in  thee  grows  weak  arid 

small, 
And  take  me  ere  I  lose  it  all  1 " 

A  shadow  on  the  moonlight  fell, 

And  murmuring   wind  and  wave  be 
came 
A  voice  whose  burden  was  her  name. 

Had  then    God   heard   her  ?      Had   he 

sent 

His  angel  down  ?     In  flesh  and  blood, 
Before  her  Esek  Harden  stood  ! 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm  : 

"Dear    Mabel,    this    no   more   shall 

be: 
Who    scoffs   at    you,    must    scoff  at 

me. 

"You  know  rough  Esek  Harden  well ; 
And  if  lie  seems  no  suitor  gay, 
And  if  his  hair  is  touched  with  gray, 

"  The  maiden  grown  shall  never  find 
His  heart  less  warm  than   when  she 

smiled, 
Upon  his  knees,  a  little  child  !  " 

Her  tears  of  grief  were  tears  of  joy, 
As,  folded  in  his  strong  embrace, 
She  looked  in  Esek  Harden's  face. 

"  0  truest  friend  of  all  !  "  she  said, 
"God  bless  you  for  your  kindly 

thought, 
And  make  me  worthy  of  my  lot !  " 

He  led  her  through  his  dewy  fields, 
To  where  the  swinging  lanterns 

glowed, 
And  through  the  doors  the  huskers 

showed. 

"Good  friends  and  neighbors  !"   Esek 

said, 

"  I  'in  weary  of  this  lonely  life  ; 
In  Mabel  see  my  chosen  wife  ! 

"  She  greets  you  kindly,  one  and  all ; 
The  past  is  past,  and  all  offence 
Falls  harmless  from  her  innocence. 


THE   GARRISON   OF  CAPE   ANN. 


221 


"  Henceforth  she  stands  no  more  alone  ; 
You  know  what  Esek  Harden  is  :  — 
He  brooks  no  wrong  to  him  or  his." 

Now  let  the  merriest  tales  be  told, 
And  let  the  sweetest  songs  be  sung 
That  ever  made  the  old  heart  young  ! 

For  now  the  lost  has  found  a  home  ; 
And  a  lone  hearth  shall  brighter  burn, 
As  all  the  household  joys  return  ! 

0,  pleasantly  the  harvest-moon, 
Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows, 
Looked  on   them   through  the  great 
elm -boughs  ! 

On  Mabel's  curls  of  golden  hair, 
On  Esek's  shaggy  strength  it  fell ; 
And    the    wind    whispered,    "It    is 
well  ! " 


THE  GARRISON   OF  CAPE  ANN. 

FROM  the  hills  of  home  forth  looking, 

far  beneath  the  tent-like  span 
Of  the  sky,  I  see  the  white  gleam  of  the 

headland  of  Cape  Ann. 
"Well  I  know  its  coves  and  beaches  to  the 

ebb-tide  glimmering  down, 
And  the  white-walled  hamlet  children  of 

its  ancient  fishing-town. 

Long  has  passed  the  summer  morning, 

and  its  memory  waxes  old, 
When  along  yon  breezy  headlands  with 

a  pleasant  friend  I  strolled. 
Ah  !  the  autumn  sun  is  shining,  and  the 

ocean  wind  blows  cool, 
And   the   golden-rod   and   aster   bloom 

around  thy  grave,  Rantoul  ! 

With  the  memory  of  that  morning  by  the 

summer  sea  I  blend 
A   wild    and   wondrous   story,    by   the 

younger  Mather  penned, 
In  that  quaint  Magnalia  Ghristi,  with 

all  strange  and  marvellous  tilings, 
Heaped  up  huge  and  undigested,  like 

the  chaos  Ovid  sings. 

Dear  to  me  these  far,  faint  glimpses  of 

the  dual  life  of  old, 
Inward,  grand  with  awe  and  reverence  ; 

outward,  mean   and   coarse   and 

cold; 


Gleams  of  mystic  beauty  playing  over 

dull  and  vulgar  clay, 
Golden-threaded  fancies   weaving   in   a 

web  of  hodden  gray. 

The  great   eventful   Present  hides  the 

Past ;  but  through  the  din 
Of  its  loud  life  hints  and  echoes  from 

the  life  behind  steal  in  ; 
And  the  lore  of  home  and  fireside,  and 

the  legendary  rhyme, 
Make  the  task  of  duty  lighter  which  the 

true  man  owes  his  time. 

So,  with  something  of  the  feeling  which 
the  Covenanter  knew, 

When  with  pious  chisel  wandering  Scot 
land's  moorland  graveyards 
through, 

From  the  graves  of  old  traditions  I  part 
the  blackberry-vines, 

Wipe  the  moss  from  off  the  headstones, 
and  retouch  the  faded  lines. 


Where  the  sea-waves  back  and  forward, 

hoarse  with  rolling  pebbles,  ran, 
The  garrison -house  stood  watching  on 

the  gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann  ; 
On  its  windy  site  uplifting  gabled  roof 

and  palisade, 
And  rough  walls  of  unhewn  timber  with 

the  moonlight  overlaid. 

On  his  slow  round  walked  the  sentry, 

south  and  eastward  looking  forth 
O'er  a  rude  and  broken  coast-line,  white 

with  breakers  stretching  north,  — • 
Wood  and  rock  and  gleaming  sand-drift, 

jagged  capes,  with  bush  and  tree, 
Leaning  inland  from  the  smiting  of  the 

wild  and  gusty  sea. 

Before  the  deep-mouthed  chimney,  dim 
ly  lit  by  dying  brands, 

Twenty  soldiers  sat  and  waited,  with 
their  muskets  in  their  hands  ; 

On  the  rough-hewn  oaken  table  the  veni 
son  haunch  was  shared, 

And  the  pewter  tankard  circled  slowly 
round  from  beard  to  beard. 

Long  they  sat  and  talked  together,  — • 
talked  of  wizards  Satan-sold  ; 

Of  all  ghostly  sights  and  noises,  —  signs 
and  wonders  manifold  ; 


222 


HOME   BALLADS. 


Of  the  spectre-sMp  of  Salem,  with  the 
dead  men  in  hwr  shrouds, 

Sailing  sheer  above  the  water,  in  the 
loom  of  morning  clouds  ; 

Of  the  marvellous  valley  hidden  in  the 

depths  of  Gloucester  woods, 
Full  of  plants  that  love  the  summer,  — 

blooms  of  warmer  latitudes  ; 
Where  the  Arctic  birch  is  braided  by 

the  tropic's  flowery  vines, 
And  the  white  magnolia-blossoms  star 

the  twilight  of  the  pines  ! 

But  their  voices  sank  yet  lower,  sank  to 

husky  tones  of  fear, 
As  they  spake  of  present  tokens  of  the 

powers  of  evil  near  ; 
Of  a  spectral  host,  defying  stroke  of  steel 

and  aim  of  gun  ; 
Never  yet  was  ball  to  slay  them  in  the 

mould  of  mortals  run  ! 

Thrice,  with  plumes  and  flowing  scalp- 
locks,  from  the  midnight  wood 
they  came,  — 

Thrice  around  the  block-house  marching, 
met,  unharmed,  its  volleyed  flame ; 

Then,  with  mocking  laugh  and  gesture, 
sunk  in  earth  or  lost  in  air, 

All  the  ghostly  wonder  vanished,  and 
the  moonlit  sands  lay  bare. 

Midnight   came  ;    from    out   the   forest 

moved  a  dusky  mass  that  soon 
Grew  to  warriors,  plumed  and  painted, 

grimly  marching  in  the  moon. 
"  Ghosts  or  witches,"  said  the  captain, 

4 'thus  I  foil  the  Evil  One  !" 
And  he   rammed  a  silver  button,   from 

his  doublet,  down  his  gun. 

Once   again  the  spectral  horror   moved 

the  guarded  wall  about  ; 
Once  again  the  levelled  muskets  through 

the  palisades  flashed  out, 
With  that  deadly  aim  the  squirrel  on  his 

tree-top  might  not  shun, 
Nor  the  beach-bird  seaward  flying  with 

his  slant  wing  to  the  sun. 

Like  the  idle  rain  of  summer  sped  the 
harmless  shower  of  lead. 

With  a  laugh  of  fierce  derision,  once 
again  the  phantoms  fled  ; 


Once  again,  without  a  shadow  on  the 
sands  the  moonlight  lay, 

And  the  white  smoke  curling  through  it 
drifted  slowly  down  the  bay  ! 

"  God  preserve  us  !  "  said  the  captain  ; 

' '  never  mortal  foes  were  there  ; 
They  have  vanished  with  their  leader, 

Prince  and  Power  of  the  air  ! 
Lay  aside   your  useless  weapons  ;  skill 

and  prowess  naught  avail  ; 
They  who  do  the  Devil's  service  wear 

their  master's  coat  of  mail  !  " 

So  the  night  grew  near  to  cock-crow, 
when  again  a  warning  call 

Roused  the  score  of  weary  soldiers  watch 
ing  round  the  dusky  hall  : 

And  they  looked  to  flint  and  priming, 
and  they  longed  for  break  of  day  ; 

But  the  captain  closed  his  Bible  :  "  Let 
us  cease  from  man,  and  pray  !  " 

To  the  men  who  went  before  us,  all  the 

unseen  powers  seemed  near, 
And  their  steadfast  strength  of  courage 

struck  its  roots  in  holy  fear. 
Every  hand  forsook  the  musket,  every 

head  was  bowed  and  bare, 
Every  stout  knee  pressed  the  flag-stou  es, 

as  the  captain  led  in  prayer. 

Ceased  thereat  the  mystic  marching  of 

the  spectres  round  the  wall, 
But  a  sound  abhorred,  unearthly,  smote 

the  ears  and  hearts  of  all,  — 
Howls  of  rage  and  shrieks  of  anguish  ! 

Never  after  mortal  man 
Saw  the  ghostly  leaguers  marching  round 

the  block-house  of  Cape  Ann. 

So  to  us  who  walk  in  summer  through 

the  cool  and  sea-blown  town, 
From  the  childhood  of  its  people  comes 

the  solemn  legend  down. 
Not  in  vain  the  ancient  fiction,  in  whose 

moral  lives  the  j^outh 
And  the  fitness  and  the  freshness  of  an 

undecaying  truth. 

Soon  or  late  to  all  our  dwellings  come 

the  spectres  of  the  mind, 
Doubts  and  fears  and  dread  forebodings, 

In  the  darkness  undefined  ; 
Round  us  throng  the  grim  projections 

of  the  heart  and  of  the  brain, 
And  our  pride  of  strength  is  weakness, 

and  the  cunning  hand  is  vain. 


THE   PROPHECY   OF   SAMUEL   SEW  ALL. 


223 


In  the  dark  we  cry  like  children  ;  and 
no  answer  from  on  high 

Breaks  the  crystal  spheres  of  silence,  and 
no  white  wings  downward  fly ; 

But  the  heavenly  help  we  pray  for  comes 
to  faith,  and  not  to  sight, 

And  our  prayers  themselves  drive  back 
ward  all  the  spirits  of  the  night ! 


THE   PROPHECY   OF   SAMUEL 
SEWALL. 

1697. 

UP  and  down  the  village  streets 
Strange  are  the  forms  my  fancy  meets, 
For  the  thoughts  and  things  of  to-day 

are  hid, 

And  through  the  veil  of  a  closed  lid 
The  ancient  worthies  I  see  again  : 
I  hear  the  tap  of  the  elder's  cane, 
And  his  awful  periwig  I  see, 
And  the  silver  buckles  of  shoe  and  knee. 
Stately  and  slow,  with  thoughtful  air, 
His  black  cap  hiding  his  whitened  hair, 
"Walks  the  Judge  of  the  great  Assize, 
Samuel  Sewall  the  good  and  wise. 
His  face  with  lines  of  firmness  wrought, 
He  wears  the  look  of  a  man  unbought, 
Who  swears  to   his   hurt   and  changes 

not  ; 

Yet,  touched  and  softened  nevertheless 
With  the  grace  of  Christian  gentleness, 
The  face  that  a  child  would  climb  to 

kiss  ! 

True  and  tender  and  brave  and  just, 
That  man  might  honor  and  woman  trust. 

Touching  and  sad,  a  tale  is  told, 
Like  a  penitent  hymn  of  the  Psalmist 

old, 
5f  the  fast  which  the  good  man  lifelong 

kept 

With  a  haunting  sorrow^  that  never  slept, 
As  the  circling  year  brought  round  the 

time 

Of  an  error  that  left  the  sting  of  crime, 
When  he  sat  on  the  bench  of  the  witch 
craft  courts, 

With  the  laws  of  Moses  and  Kale's  Re 
ports, 
And  spake,  in  the  name  of  both,  the 

word 
That    gave    the  witch's    neck   to    the 

cord, 

And  piled  the  oaken  planks  that  pressed 
The  feeble  life  from  the  warlock's  breast ! 


All  the  day  long,  from  dawn  to  dawn, 
His  door  was  bolted,  his  curtain  drawn  ; 
No  foot  on  his  silent  threshold  trod, 
No  eye  looked  on  him  save  that  of  God, 
As  he  baffled  the  ghosts  of  the  dead  with 

charms 
Of    penitent    tears,    and    prayers,    and 

psalms, 
And,  with  precious  proofs  from  the  sacred 

word 
Of  the  boundless  pity  and  love  of  ths 

Lord, 

His  faith   confirmed  and  his  trust  re 
newed 
That   the   sin  of  his   ignorance,   sorely 

rued, 
Might  be  washed  away  in  the  mingled 

flood 
Of  his  human  sorrow  and  Christ's  dear 

blood  ! 

Green  forever  the  memory  be 
Of  the  Judge  of  the  old  Theocracy, 
Whom  even  his  errors  glorified, 
Like  a  far-seen,  sunlit  mountain-side 
By  the  cloudy  shadows   which  o'er  it 

glide  ! 

Honor  and  praise  to  the  Puritan 
Who  the  halting  step  of  his  age  outran, 
And,  seeing  the  infinite  worth  of  man 
In  the  priceless  gift  the  Father  gave, 
In  the  infinite  love  that  stooped  to  save, 
Dared  not  brand  his  brother  a  slave  ! 
"  Wko  doth  such  wrong,"  he  was  wont 

to  say, 

In  his  own  quaint,  picture-loving  way, 
"  Flings  up  to  Heaven  a  hand-grenade 
Which  God  shall  cast  down  upon  his 

head  !  " 

Widely  as  heaven  and  hell,  contrast 
That  brave  old  jurist  of  the  past 
And  the  cunning  trickster  and  knave  of 

courts 

Who  the  holy  features  of  Truth   dis 
torts,  — 

Ruling  as  right  the  will  of  the  strong, 
Poverty,  crime,  and  weakness  wrong  ; 
Wide-eared  to  power,  to  the  wronged 

and  weak 

Deaf  as  Egypt's  gods  of  leek  ; 
Scoffing  aside  at  party's  nod 
Order  of  nature  and  law  of  God  •, 
For  whose  dabbled  «rmine  respect  were 

waste, 

Reverence  folly,  and  awe  misplaced  ; 
Justice  of  whom  't  were  vain  to  seek 


224 


HOME   BALLADS. 


As    from   Koordish  robber    or     Syrian 

Sheik  ! 
0,  leave  the  wretch  to  his  bribes  and 

sins  ; 

Let  him  rot  in  the  web  of  lies  he  spins  ! 
To  the  saintly  soul  of  the  early  day, 
To  the  Christian  judge,  let  us  turn  and 

say  : 
"  Praise    and    thanks    for    an    honest 

man  !  — 
Glory  to  God  for  the  Puritan  !  " 

I  see,  far  southward,  this  quiet  day, 
The  hills  of  Newbury  rolling  away, 
With  the  many  tints  of  the  season  gay, 
Dreamily  blending  in  autumn  mist 
Crimson,  and  gold,  and  amethyst. 
Long  and  low,  with  dwarf  trees  crowned, 
Plum  Island  lies,  like  a  whale  aground, 
A  stone's  toss  over  the  narrow  sound. 
Inland,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  go, 
The   hills  curve  round  like  a  bended 

bow  ; 

A  silver  arrow  from  out  them  sprung, 
I  see  the  shine  of  the  Quasycung  ; 
And,  round  and  round,  over  valley  and 

hill, 

Old  roads  winding,  as  old  roads  will, 
Here  to  a  ferry,  and  there  to  a  mill  ; 
And  glimpses  of  chimneys  and  gabled 

eaves, 
Through  green  elm  arches  and  maple 

leaves,  — 

Old  homesteads  sacred  to  all  that  can 
Gladden  or  sadden  the  heart  of  man,  — 
Over  whose  thresholds  of  oak  and  stone 
Life  and  Death  have  come  and  gone  ! 
There    pictured    tiles  in    the  fireplace 

show, 

Great  beams  sag  from  the  ceiling  low, 
The  dresser  glitters  with  polished  wares, 
The  long  clock  ticks  on  the  foot-worn 

stairs, 
And  the  low,  broad  chimney  shows  the 

crack 
By  the    earthquake    made    a    century 

back. 
Up  from  their  midst  springs  the  village 

spire 
With  the  crest  of  its  cock  in  the  sun 

afire  ; 

Beyond  are  orchards  and  planting  lands, 
And  great  salt  marshes  and  glimmering 

sands, 

And,  where  north  and  south  the  coast 
lines  run, 
The  blink  of  the  sea  in  breeze  and  sun  ! 


I  see  it  all  like  a  chart  unrolled, 
But  my  thoughts  are  full  of  the  past 

and  old, 

I  hear  the  tales  of  my  boyhood  told  ; 
And   the  shadows  and  shapes  of  early 

days 

Flit  dimly  by  in  the  veiling  haze, 
With  measured  movement  and  rhythmic 

chime 

Weaving  like  shuttles  my  web  of  rhyme. 
I  think  of  the  old  man  wise  and  good 
Who  once  on  yon  misty  hillsides  stood, 
(A  poet  who  never  measured  rhyme, 
A  seer  unknown  to  his  dull-eared  time,) 
And,  propped  on  his  staff  of  age,  looked 

down, 
With  his  boyhood's  love,  on  his  native 

town, 
Where,  written,  as  if  on  its  hills  and 

plains, 

His  burden  of  prophecy  yet  remains, 
For  the  voices  of  wood,  and  wave,  and 

wind 
To  read  in  the  ear  of  the  musingmind  :  — 

"As  long  as  Plum  Island,  to  guard 

the  coast 

As  God  appointed,  shall  keep  its  post  ; 
As  long  as  a  salmon  shall  haunt  the  deep 
Of  Merrimack  River,  or  sturgeon  leap  ; 
As  long  as  pickerel  swift  and  slim, 
Or  red-backed  perch,  in  Crane  Pond  swim ; 
As  long  as  the  annual  sea-fowl  know 
Their  time  to  come  and  their  time  to  go  ; 
As  long  as  cattle  shall  roam  at  will 
The  green,  grass  meadows  by  Turkey  Hill ; 
As  long  as  sheep  shall  look  from  the  side 
Of  Oldtown  Hill  on  marishes  wide, 
And  Parker  River,  and  salt-sea  tide  ; 
As  longas  a  wandering  pigeon  shall  search 
The  fields  below  from  his  white-oak  perch, 
When   the  barley-harvest    is  ripe    an-1 

shorn, 
And  the  dry  husks  fall  from  the  stand 

ing  corn  ; 

As  long  as  Nature  shall  not  grow  old, 
Nor  drop  her  work  from  her  doting  hold, 
And  her  care  for  the  Indian  corn  forget, 
And  the  yellow  rows  in  pairs  to  set  ;  — 
So  long  shall  Christians  here  be  born, 
Grow  up  and  ripen  as  God's  sweet  corn  !  — 
By  the  beak  of  bird,  by  the  breath  of 

frost, 

Shall  never  a  holy  ear  be  lost, 
But,  husked  by  Death  in  the  Planter's 

sight, 
Be  sown  again  in  the  fields  of  light !  " 


SKIPPER  IRESON'S   RIDE. 


225 


The  Island  still  is  purple  with  plums, 

Up  the  river  the  salmon  comes, 

The   sturgeon  leaps,   and  the  wild-fowl 

feeds 

On  hillside  berries  and  marish  seeds,  — 
All  the  beautiful  signs  remain, 
From  spring-time  sowing  to  autumn  rain 
The  good  man's  vision  returns  again! 
And  let  us  hope,  as  well  we  can, 
That  the  Silent  Angel  who  garners  man 
May  find  some  grain  as  of  old  he  found 
In  the  human  cornfield  ripe  and  sound, 
And  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  deign  to 

own 
The  precious  seed  by  the  fathers  sown  ! 


SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE. 

OF  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time, 
Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme,  — 
On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 
Or  one-eyed  Calendar's  horse  of  brass, 
Witch  astride  of  a  human  back, 
Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak,  — 
The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 
Was  Ireson's,  out  from  Marblehead  ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 
Wings  a-droop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 
Feathered  and  ruffled  in  every  part, 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 
Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue, 
Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane. 
Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain  : 
"Here's  Flud  Oirson,  far  his  horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd   an'  futherr'd   an'  corr'd   in  a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 
Oirls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 
Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase 
Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 
Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 
Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 
With   conch-shells    blowing    and   fish- 

liorns'  twang, 
Over  and  over  the  Maenads  sang  : 

"Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd 

horrt, 

15 


Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

Small  pity  for  him  !  —  He  sailed  away 
From  a  leaking  ship,  in  Chaleur  Bay,  — 
Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With  his  own  town's-people  on  her  deck  ! 
"  Lay  by  !  lay  by  !  "  they  called  to  him. 
Back  he  answered,  "  Sink  or  swim  ! 
Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again  !  " 
And  off  he  sailed  through  the  fog  and 

rain  ! 

Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 
Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 
Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea,  — 
Looked  for  the  coming  that  might  not 

be! 
What  did  the  winds  and  the  sea-birds 

say 

Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sailed  away  ?  — 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side, 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide  ; 
Sharp-tongued  spinsters,  old  wives  gray, 
Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray. 
Sea-worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound, 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 
Shook  head,  and  fist,  and  hat,  and  cane, 
And  cracked  with  curses  the  hoarse  re 
frain  : 
"Here's  Find  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 

Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed. 

Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 

Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so 

blue. 

Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim, 
Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim, 
Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  heo* 
Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near  : 


226 


HOME   BALLADS. 


"  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'   corr'd  in  a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

"  Hear    me,    neighbors  ! "   at    last    he 

cried,  — 

"  What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride  ? 
What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the  skin 
To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives  within  ? 
Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck  ! 
Hate  me  and  curse  me,  —  I  only  dread 
The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the 

dead  !  " 
Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard 

heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 
Said,    "  God  has  touched  him  !  —  why 

should  we  ? " 

Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only  son, 
"Cut   the  rogue's  tether  and   let  him 

run  !  " 

So  with  soft  relentings  and  rude  excuse, 
Half  scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut  him  loose, 
And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in, 
And  left  him  alone  with  his  shame  and 

sin. 

Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 


TELLING  THE   BEES.66 

HERE  is  the  place  ;  right  over  the  hill 

Kuns  the  path  I  took  ; 
You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old  wall  still, 

And  the  stepping-stones  in  the  shal 
low  brook. 

There  is  the  house,  with  the  gate  red- 
barred, 

And  the  poplars  tall ; 
And  the  barn's  brown  length,  and  the 

cattle-yard, 

And  the  white  horns  tossing  above  the 
wall. 

There  are  the  beehives  ranged  in  the  sun  ; 
And  down  by  the  brink 


Of  the  brook  are  her  poor  flowers,  weed. 

o'errun, 
Pansy  and  daffodil,  rose  and  pink. 

A  year  has  gone,  as  the  tortoise  goes, 

Heavy  and  slow  ; 
And  the  same  rose  blows,  and  the  same 

sun  glows, 

And  the  same  brook  sings  of  a  year 
ago. 

There  's  the  same  sweet  clover-smell  in 
the  breeze  ; 

And  the  June  sun  warm 
Tangles  his  wings  of  fire  in  the  trees, 

Setting,  as  then,  over  Fernside  farm. 

I  mind  me  how  with  a  lover's  care 

From  my  Sunday  coat 
I  brushed  off  the  burrs,  and  smooth  ;d 

my  hair, 

And  cooled  at  the  brookside  my  brow 
and  throat. 

Since  we  parted,  a  month  had  passed,  — 

To  love,  a  year  ; 
Down  through  the  beeches  I  looked  at 

last 

On  the  little  red  gate  and  the  well- 
sweep  near. 

I  can  see  it  all  now, — the  slantwise  rain 

Of  light  through  the  leaves, 
The  sundown's   blaze  on   her  window- 
pane, 

The  bloom  of  her  roses  under  the  eaves. 

Just  the  same  as  a  month  before,  — 

The  house  and  the  trees, 
The  barn's  brown  gable,  the  vine  by  the 
door,  — 

Nothing  changed  but  the  hives  of  bees. 

Before  them,  under  the  garden  Avail, 

Forward  and  back, 
Went    drearily   singing    the   chore-girl 

small, 

Draping  each  hive  with  a  shred  of 
black. 

Trembling,  I  listened  :  the  summer  sun 

Had  the  chill  of  snow  ; 
For  I  knew  she  was  telling  the  bees  of 
one 

Gone  on  the  journey  we  all  must  go  ! 

Then  I  said  to  myself,  "My  Mary  weeps 
For  the  dead  to-day  : 


THE   SYCAMORES. 


227 


Haply  her  blind  old  grandsire  sleeps 
The  fret  and  the  pain  of  his  age  away. " 

But  her  dog  whined  low ;  on  the  door 
way  sill, 

With  his  cane  to  his  chin, 
The  old  man  sat  ;  and  the  chore-girl  still 

Sung  to  the  bees  stealing  out  and  in. 

And  the  song  she  was  singing  ever  since 

i     In  my  ear  sounds  on  :  — 

'"  Stay  at  home,    pretty  bees,    fly  not 

hence  ! 
Mistress  Mary  is  dead  and  gone  !  " 


THE  SYCAMORES. 

IN  the  outskirts  of  the  village, 
On  the  river's  winding  shores, 

Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees, 
Stand  the  ancient  sycamores. 

One  long  century  hath  been  numbered, 

And  another  half-way  told, 
Since  the  rustic  Irish  gieernan 

Broke  for  them  the  virgin  mould. 

Deftly  set  to  Celtic  music, 

At  his  violin's  sound  they  grew, 

Through  the  moonlit  eves  of  summer, 
Making  Arnphion's  fable  true. 

Rise  again,  thou  poor  Hugh  Tallant  ! 

Pass  in  jerkin  green  along, 
With  thy  eyes  brimful  of  laughter, 

And  thy  mouth  as  full  of  song. 

Pioneer  of  Erin's  outcasts, 
With  his  fiddle  and  his  pack  ; 

Little  dreamed  the  village  Saxons 
Of  the  myriads  at  his  back. 

How  he  wrought  with  spade  and  fiddle, 
Delved  by  day  and  sang  by  night, 

With  a  hand  that  never  wearied, 
And  a  heart  forever  light,  — 

Still  the  gay  tradition  mingles 
With  a  record  grave  and  drear, 

Like  the  rolic  air  of  Cluny, 
With  the  solemn  march  of  Mear. 

When  the  box-tree,  white  with  blossoms, 
Made  the  sweet  May  woodlands  glad, 

A.nd  the  Aronia  by  the  river 
Lighted  up  the  swarming  shad, 


And  the  bulging  nets  swept  shoreward, 
With  their  silver-sided  haul, 

Midst  the  shouts  of  dripping  fishers, 
He  was  merriest  of  them  all. 

When,  among  the  jovial  huskers, 
Love  stole  in  at  Labor's  side 

With  the  lusty  airs  of  England, 
Soft  his  Celtic  measures  vied. 

Songs  of  love  and  wailing  lyke-wake, 
And  the  merry  fair's  carouse  ; 

Of  the  wild  Red  Fox  of  Erin 
And  the  Woman  of  Three  Cows, 

By  the  blazing  hearths  of  winter, 
Pleasant  seemed  his  simple  tales, 

Midst  the  grimmer  Yorkshire  legends 
And  the  mountain  myths  of  Wales. 

How  the  souls  in  Purgatory 
Scrambled  up  from  fate  forlorn, 

On  St.  Keven's  sackcloth  ladder, 
Slyly  hitched  to  Satan's  horn. 

Of  the  fiddler  who  at  Tara 

Played  all  night  to  ghosts  of  kings  ; 
Of  the  brown  dwarfs,  and  the  failles 

Dancing  in  their  moorland  rings  ! 

Jolliest  of  our  birds  of  singing, 
Best  he  loved  the  Bob-o-link. 

"  Hush  !  "  he  'd  say,  "  the  tipsy  fairies ! 
Hear  the  little  folks  in  drink  !  " 

Merry-faced,  with  spade  and  fiddle, 
Singing  through  the  ancient  town, 

Only  this,  of  poor  Hugh  Tallant, 
Hath  Tradition  handed  down. 

Not  a  stone  his  grave  discloses  ; 

But  if  yet  his  spirit  walks, 
'T  is  beneath  the  trees  he  planted, 

And  when  Bob-o-Lincoln  talks  ; 

Green  memorials  of  the  gleeman  ! 

Linking  still  the  river-shores, 
With  their  shadows  cast  by  sunset, 

Stand  Hugh  Tallant' s  sycamores  ! 

When  the  Father  of  his  Country 

Through  the  north-land  riding  came, 

And  the  roofs  \vere  starred  with  banners, 
And  the  steeples  rang  acclaim,  — 

When  each  war-scarred  Continental, 
Leaving  smithy,  mill,  and  farm. 


228 


HOME   BALLADS. 


"Waved  his  rusted  sword  in  welcome, 
And  shot  off  his  old  king's  arm,  — 

Slowly  passed  that  august  Presence 
Down  the  thronged  and  shouting  street ; 

Village  girls  as  white  as  angels, 
Scattering  flowers  around  his  feet. 

Midway,  where  the  plane-tree's  shadow 
Deepest  fell,  his  rein  he  drew  : 

On  his  stately  head,  uncovered, 
Cool  and  soft  the  west-wind  blew. 

And  he  stood  up  in  his  stirrups, 
Looking  up  and  looking  down 

On  the  hills  of  Gold  and  Silver 
Rimming  round  the  little  town,  — 

On  the  river,  full  of  sunshine, 

To  the  lap  of  greenest  vales 
Winding  down  from  wooded  headlands, 

Willow-skirted,  white  with  sails. 

And  he  said,  the  landscape  sweeping 
Slowly  with  his  ungloved  hand, 

*'  I  have  seen  no  prospect  fairer 
In  this  goodly  Eastern  land." 

Then  the  bugles  of  his  escort 
Stirred  to  life  the  cavalcade  : 

And  that  head,  so  bare  and  stately, 
Vanished  down  the  depths  of  shade. 

Ever  since,  in  town  and  farm-house, 
Life  has  had  its  ebb  and  flow  ; 

Thrice    hath    passed    the  human  har 
vest 
To  its  garner  green  and  low. 

But  the  trees  the  gleeman  planted, 
Through    the     changes,     changeless 
stand  ; 

As  the  marble  calm  of  Tadmor 
Marks  the  desert's  shifting  sand. 

Still  the  level  moon  at  rising 
Silvers  o'er  each  stately  shaft ; 

Still  beneath  them,  half  in  shadow, 
Singing,  glides  the  pleasure  craft. 

Still  beneath  them,  arm-enfolded, 
Love  and  Youth  together  stray  ; 

While,  as  heart  to  heart  beats  faster, 
More  and  more  their  feet  delay. 

Where  the  ancient  cobbler,  Keezar, 
On  the  open  hillside  wrought, 


Singing,  as  he  drew  his  stitches, 
Songs  his  German  masters  taught, 

Singing,  with  his  gray  hair  floating 
Round  his  rosy  ample  face,  — 

Now  a  thousand  Saxon  craftsmen 
Stitch  and  hammer  in  his  place. 

All  the  pastoral  lanes  so  grassy 
Now  are  Traffic's  dusty  streets  ; 

From  the  village,  grown  a  city, 
Fast  the  rural  grace  retreats. 

But,  still  green,  and  tall,  and  stately, 
On  the  river's  winding  shores, 

Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees, 
Stand  Hugh  Tallant's  sycamores. 


THE    DOUBLE-HEADED     SNAKE 
OF   NEWBURY. 

"  Concerning  y»  Amphisbama,  as  soon  as  I  re 
ceived  your  commands,  I  made  diligent  inquiry  : 
.  ...  he  assures  me  y*  it  had  really  two  heads, 
one  at  each  end  ;  two  mouths,  two  stings  or 
tongues." — REV.  CHRISTOPHER  TOPPAN  to  COT 
TON  MATHER. 

FAK  away  in  the  twilight  time 
Of  every  people,  in  every  clime, 
Dragons  and  griffins  and  monsters  dire, 
Born  of  water,  and  air,  and  fire, 
Or  nursed,  like  the  Python,  in  the  mud 
And  ooze  of  the  old  Deucalion  flood, 
Crawl  and  wriggle  and  foam  with  rage, 
Through  dusk  tradition  and  ballad  age. 
So  from  the  childhood  of  Newbury  town 
And   its  time  of   fable  the  tale   comes 

down 
Of  a  terror  which   haunted   bush   and 

brake, 
The  Amphisbeena,  the  Double  Snake  ! 

Thou  who  makest  the  tale  thy  mirth, 

Consider  that  strip  of  Christian  earth 

On  the  desolate  shore  of  a  sailless  sea, 

Full  of  terror  and  mystery, 

Half  redeemed  from  the  evil  hold 

Of  the  wood  so  dreary,  and  dark,  and  old, 

Which  drank  with  its  lips  of  leaves  the 

dew 
When  Time  was  young,  and  the  world 

was  new, 
And  wove  its  shadows  with  sun  and 

moon, 
Ere  the  stones  of  Cheops  were  squared 

and  hewn. 
Think  of  the  sea'i.  <lren,d  monotone, 


THE   SWAN   SONG   OF   PARSON   AVERY. 


229 


Of  tlie  mournful  wail  from  the  pine-wood 

blown, 
Of  the  strange,   vast  splendors  that  lit 

the  North, 
Of  the  troubled   throes  of  the  quaking 

earth, 

And  the  dismal  tales  the  Indian  told, 
Till   the   settler's   heart   at   his   hearth 

grew  cold, 
A.nd  he  shrank  from  the  tawny  vizard 

boasts, 
And  the  hovering  shadows  seemed  full  of 

ghosts, 

And  above,  below,  and  on  every  side, 
The  fear  of  his  creed  seemed  veriiied  ;  — 
And   think,  if  his  lot   were  now  thine 

own, 
To  grope  with   terrors  nor   named   nor 

known, 

How  laxer  muscle  and  weaker  nerve 
And  a  feebler  faith    thy  need  might 

serve ; 

And  own  to  thyself  the  wonder  more 
T hat  the  snake  had  two  heads,  and  not 

a  score  ! 

Whether  he  lurked  in  the  Oldtown  fen 
Or  the  gray  earth-flax  of  the  Devil's  Den, 
Or  swam  in  the  wooded  Artichoke, 
Or  coiled   by  the   Northman's  Written 

Kock, 

Nothing  on  record  is  left  to  show  ; 
Only  the  fact  that  he  lived,  we  know, 
And  left  the  cast  of  a  double  head 
In  the  scaly  mask  which  he  yearly  shed. 
For  he   carried  a  head  where  his  tail 

should  be, 
And   the   two,  of  course,    could   never 

agree, 

But  wriggled  about  with  main  and  might, 
Now  to  the  left  and  now  to  the  right ; 
Pulling  and  twisting  this  way  and  that, 
Neither  knew  what  the  other  was  at. 

A  snake  with   two  heads,    lurking  so 

near  !  — 

Judge  of  the  wonder,  guess  at  the  fear  ! 
Think  what  ancient  gossips  might  say, 
Shaking  their  heads  in  their  dreary  way, 
Between  the  meetings  on  Sabbath-day  ! 
How  urchins,  searching  at  day's  decline 
The  Common  Pasture  for  sheep  or  kine, 
The  terrible  donble-ganger  heard 
In  leafy  rustle  or  whir  of  bird  ! 
Think  what  a  zest  it  gave  to  the  sport, 
In  berry-time,  of  the  younger  sort, 
As  over  pastures  blackberry-twined, 


Reuben  and  Dorothy  lagged  behind, 
And  closer  and  closer,  for  fear  of  harm, 
The  maiden  clung  to  her  lover's  arm  ; 
And  how  the  spark,  who  was  forced  to 

stay, 
By  his  sweetheart's  fears,  till  the  break  of 

day, 
Thanked  the  snake  for  the  fond  delay ! 

Ja,r  and  wide  the  tale  was  told, 

Like  a  snowball  growing  while  it  rolled. 

The  nurse  hushed  with  it   the  baby's 

cry; 
And  it  served,  in  the  worthy  minister's 

eye, 

To  paint  the  primitive  serpent  by. 
Cotton  Mather  came  galloping  down 
All  the  way  to  Newbury  town, 
With  his  eyes   agog   and  his  ears   set 

wide, 

And  his  marvellous  inkhorn  at  his  side  ; 
Stirring  the  while  in  the  shallow  pool 
Of  his  brains  for  the  lore  he  learned  at 

school, 
To    garnish    the    story,    with    here    a 

streak 

Of  Latin,  and  there  another  of  Greek  : 
And  the  tales  he  heard  and  the  notes  he 

took, 
Behold  !   are  they  not  in  his  Wonder* 

Book? 

Stories,  like  dragons,  are  hard  to  kill. 
If  the  snake   does  not,    the   tale  runs 

still 

In  Byfield  Meadows,  on  Pipestave  Hill. 
And  still,  whenever  husband  and  wife 
Publish  the  shame  of  their  daily  strife, 
And,  with  mad  cross-purpose,  tug  and 

strain 

At  either  end  of  the  marriage -chain, 
The  gossips  say,  with  a  knowing  shake 
Of    their    gray   heads,    "  Look   at   the- 

Double  Snake  ! 
One  in  body  and  two  in  will, 
The  Amphisbsena  is  living  still !  " 


THE    SWAN    SONG    OF    PARSOtf 
AVERY. 

WHEN  the  reaper's  task  was  ended,  and 
the  summer  wearing  late, 

Parson  Avery  sailed  from  Newbury,  with 
his  wife  and  children  eight, 

Dropping  down  the  river-harbor  in  the 
shallop  "  Watch  and  Wait." 


230 


HOME  BALLADS. 


Pleasantly  lay  the  clearings  in  the  mel 
low  summer-morn, 

With  the  newly  planted  orchards  drop 
ping  their  fruits  first-born, 

And  the  homesteads  like  green  islands 
amid  a  sea  of  corn. 

Broad  meadows  reached  out  seaward  the 

tided  creeks  between, 
And  hills  rolled  wave-like  inland,  with 

oaks  and  walnuts  green  ;  — 
A  fairer  home,  a  goodlier  land,  his  eyes 

had  never  seen. 

Yet  away  sailed   Parson  Avery,  away 

where  duty  led, 
And  the  voice  of  God  seemed  calling, 

to  break  the  living  bread 
To  the  souls  of  fishers  starving  on  the 

rocks  of  Marblehead. 

All  day  they  sailed  :  at  nightfall  the 
pleasant  land-breeze  died, 

The  blackening  sky,  at  midnight,  its 
starry  lights  denied, 

And  far  and  low  the  thunder  of  tempest 
prophesied  ! 

Blotted  out  were  all  the  coast-lines,  gone 
were  rock,  and  wood,  and  sand ; 

Grimly  anxious  stood  the  skipper  with 
the  rudder  in  his  hand, 

And  questioned  of  the  darkness  what 
was  sea  and  what  was  land. 

And  the  preacher  heard  his  dear  ones, 
nestled  round  him,  weeping  sore  : 

"Never  heed,  my  little  children  !  Christ 
is  walking  on  before 

To  the  pleasant  land  of  heaven,  where 
the  sea  shall  be  no  more." 

All  at  once  the  great  cloud  parted,  like 

a  curtain  drawn  aside, 
To  let  down  the  torch  of  lightning  on 

the  terror  far  and  wide  ; 
A.nd  the    thunder   and   the   whirlwind 

together  smote  the  tide. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  shallop,  wo 
man's  wail  and  man's  despair, 

A  crash  of  breaking  timbers  on  the  rocks 
so  sharp  and  bare, 

And,  through  it  all,  the  murmur  of 
Father  Avery's  prayer. 


From  his  struggle  in  the  darkness  with 
the  wild  waves  and  the  blast, 

On  a  rock,  where  every  billow  broke 
above  him  as  it  passed, 

Alone,  of  all  his  household,  the  man  of 
God  was  cast. 

There  a  comrade  heard  him  praying,  in 
the  pause  of  wave  and  wind  : 

"  All  my  own  have  gone  before  me,  and 
I  linger  just  behind; 

Not  for  life  I  ask,  but  only  for  the  rest 
thy  ransomed  find  ! 

"  In  this  night  of  death  I  challenge  the 
promise  of  thy  word  !  — 

Let  me  see  the  great  salvation  of  which 
mine  ears  have  heard  !  — 

Let  me  pass  from  hence  forgiven,  through 
the  grace  of  Christ,  our  Lord  ! 

"In  the  baptism  of  these  waters  wash 
white  my  every  sin, 

And  let  me  follow  up  to  thee  my  house 
hold  and  my  kin ! 

Open  the  sea-gate  of  thy  heaven,  and 
let  me  enter  in  ! " 

"When  the  Christian  sings  his  death- 
song,  all  the  listening  heavens 
draw  near, 

And  the  angels,  leaning  over  the  walls 
of  crystal,  hear 

How  the  notes  so  faint  and  broken  swell 
to  music  in  God's  ear. 

The  ear  of  God  was  open  to  his  servant's 

last  request  ; 
As  the  strong  wave  swept  him  downward 

the  sweet  hymn  upward  pressed, 
And  the   soul   of  Father   Avery  went, 

singing,  to  its  rest. 

There  was  wailing  on  the  mainland, 
from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead  ; 

In  the  stricken  church  of  Newbury  the 
notes  of  prayer  were  read  ; 

And  long,  by  board  and  hearthstone,  the 
living  mourned  the  dead. 

And  still  the  fishers  outbound,  or  scud 
ding  from  the  squall, 

With  grave  and  reverent  faces,  the  an 
cient  tale  recall, 

When  they  see  the  white  waves  break 
ing  on  the  Rock  of  Avery's 
Fall! 


THE  TRUCE   OF   PISCATAQUA. 


231 


THE  TRUCE  OF  PISCATAQUA. 

1675. 

RAZE  these  long  blocks  of  brick  and 

stone, 

These  huge  mill-monsters  overgrown  ; 
Blot  out  the  humbler  piles  as  well, 
Where,     moved     like     living  shuttles, 

dwell 

The  weaving  genii  of  the  bell ; 
Tear  from  the  wild  Cocheco's  track 
The  dams  that  hold  its  torrents  back  ; 
And  let  the  loud-rejoicing  fall 
Plunge,  roaring,  down  its  rocky  wall ; 
And  let  the  Indian's  paddle  play 
On  the  unbridged  Piscataqua  ! 
Wide  over  hill  and  valley  spread 
Once  more  the  forest,  dusk  and  dread, 
With  here  and  there  a  clearing  cut 
From  the  walled  shadows  round  it  shut ; 
Each  with  its  farm-house  builded  rude, 
By  English  yeoman  squared  and  hewed, 
And    the   grim,    Hankered   block-house 

bound 

"With  bristling  palisades  around. 
So,  haply  shall  before  thine  eyes 
The  dusty  veil  of  centuries  rise, 
The  old,  strange  scenery  overlay 
The  tamer  pictures  of  to-day, 
While,  like  the  actors  in  a  play, 
Pass  in  their  ancient  guise  along 
The  figures  of  my  border  song  : 
What  time  beside  Cocheco's  flood 
The  white  man  and  the  red  man  stood, 
With  words  of  peace  and  brotherhood  ; 
When  passed  the  sacred  calumet 
From  lip  to  lip  with  fire-draught  wet, 
And,  puffed  in  scorn,  the   peace-pipe's 

smoke 

Through  the  gray  beard  of  Waldron  broke, 
And  Squando's  voice,  in  suppliant  plea 
For  mercy,  struck  the  haughty  key 
Of  one  who  held,  in  any  fate, 
His  native  pride  inviolate  ! 

"Let  your  ears  be  opened  wide  1 
He  who  speaks  has  never  lied. 
Waldron  of  Piscataqua, 
Hear  what  Squando  has  to  say  ! 

"  Squando  shuts  his  eyes  and  sees, 
Far  off,  Saco's  hemlock-trees. 
In  his  wigwam,  still  as  stone, 
Sits  a  woman  all  alone, 

"  Wampum  beads  and  birchen  strands 
Dropping  from  her  careless  hands, 


Listening  ever  for  the  fleet 
Patter  of  a  dead  child's  feet ! 

"  When  the  moon  a  year  ago 
Told  the  flowers  the  time  to  blow, 
In  that  lonely  wigwam  smiled 
Menewee,  our  little  child. 

"  Ere  that  moon  grew  thin  and  old, 
He  was  lying  still  and  cold ; 
Sent  before  us,  weak  and  small, 
When  the  Master  did  not  call ! 

"On  his  little  grave  I  lay  ; 
Three  times  went  and  came  the  day ; 
Thrice  above  me  blazed  the  noon, 
Thrice  upon  me  wept  the  moon. 

"  In  the  third  night-watch  I  heard, 
Far  and  low,  a  spirit-bird  ; 
Very  mournful,  very  wild, 
Sang  the  totem  of  my  child. 

"  '  Menewee,  poor  Menewee, 
Walks  a  path  he  cannot  see : 
Let  the  white  man's  wigwam  light 
With  its  blaze  his  steps  aright. 

"  '  All-uncalled,  he  dares  not  show 
Empty  hands  to  Manito  : 
Better  gifts  he  cannot  bear 
Than  the  scalps  his  slayers  wear.' 

"All  the  while  the  totem  sang, 
Lightning  blazed  and  thunder  rang ; 
And  a  black  cloud,  reaching  high, 
Pulled  the  white  moon  from  the  sky. 

"  I,  the  medicine-man,  whose  ear 
All  that  spirits  hear  can  hear,  — • 
I,  whose  eyes  are  wide  to  see 
All  the  things  that  are  to  be,  — 

"  Well  I  knew  the  dreadful  signs 
In  the  whispers  of  the  pines, 
In  the  river  roaring  loud, 
In  the  mutter  of  the  cloud. 

' '  At  the  breaking  of  the  day, 
From  the  grave  I  passed  away  ; 
Flowers  bloomed  round  me,  birds  sang 

glad, 
But  my  heart  was  hot  and  mad. 

"  There  is  rust  on  Squando's  knife, 
From  the  warm,  red  springs  of  life ; 


232 


HOME   BALLADS. 


On  the  funeral  hemlock -trees 
Many  a  scalp  the  totem  sees. 

"  Blood  for  blood  !     But  evermore 
Squando' s  heart  is  sad  and  sore  ; 
And  his  poor  squaw  waits  at  home 
For  the  feet  that  never  come  ! 

""Waldron  of  Cocheco,  hear  ! 
Squando  speaks,  who  laughs  at  fear ; 
Take  the  captives  he  has  ta'en  ; 
Let  the  land  have  peace  again ! " 

As  the  words  died  on  his  tongue, 
Wide  apart  his  warriors  s\vi.ng  ; 
Parted,  at  the  sign  he  gave, 
Right  and  left,  like  Egypt's  wave. 

And,  like  Israel  passing  free 
Through  the  prophet-charmed  sea, 
Captive  mother,  wife,  and  child 
Through  the  dusky  terror  hied. 

One  alone,  a  little  maid, 
Middleway  her  steps  delayed, 
Glancing,  with  quick,  troubled  sight, 
Round  about  from  red  to  white. 

Then  his  hand  the  Indian  laid 
On  the  little  maiden's  head, 
Lightly  from  her  forehead  fair 
Smoothing  back  her  yellow  hair. 

"  Gift  or  favor  ask  I  none ; 
What  I  have  is  all  my  own  : 
Never  yet  the  birds  have  sung, 
'Squando  hath  a  beggar's  tongue.' 

"  Yet  for  her  who  waits  at  home, 
For  the  dead  who  cannot  come, 
Let  the  little  Gold-hair  be 
In  the  place  of  Meiiewee  ! 

' '  Mishanock,  my  little  star  ! 
Come  to  Saco's  pines  afar  ; 
Where  the  sad  one  waits  at  home, 
Wequashim,  my  moonlight,  come  !  " 

"What!"    quoth   Waldron,    "leave   a 

child 

Christian -born  to  heathens  wild  ? 
As  God  lives,  from  Satan's  hand 
I  will  pluck  her  as  a  brand  ! " 

"Hear    me,    white     man!"    Squando 

cried  ; 
"  Let  the  little  one  decide. 


Wequashim,  my  moonlight,  wiy. 
Wilt  thou  go  with  me,  or  stay  ? v 

Slowly,  sadly,  half  afraid, 
Half  regretfully,  the  maid 
Owned  the  ties  of  blood  and  race,  — 
Turned  from  Squando's  pleading  face. 

Not  a  word  the  Indian  spoke, 
But  his  wampum  chain  he  broke, 
And  the  beaded  wonder  hung 
On  that  neck  so  fair  and  young. 

Silence-shod,  as  phantoms  seem 
In  the  marches  of  a  dream, 
Single-filed,  the  grim  array 
Through  the  pine-trees  wound  away. 

Doubting,  trembling,  sore  amazed, 
Through  her  tears  the  young  child  gazetX 
"  God  preserve  her  !  "  Waldron  said  ; 
"Satan  hath  bewitched  the  maid  !  " 

Years  went  and  came.     At  close  of  day 
Singing  came  a  child  from  play, 
Tossing  from  her  loose-locked  head 
Gold  in  sunshine,  brown  in  shade. 

Pride  was  in  the  mother's  look, 
But  her  head  she  gravely  shook, 
And  with  lips  that  fondly  smiled 
Feigned  to  chide  her  truant  child. 

Unabashed,  the  maid  began  : 
'"Up  and  down  the  brook  I  ran, 
Where,  beneath  the  bank  so  steep, 
Lie  the  spotted  trout  asleep. 

"  '  Chip  ! '  went  squirrel  on  the  wall, 
After  me  I  heard  him  call, 
And  the  cat- bird  on  the  tree 
Tried  his  best  to  mimic  me. 

"  Where  the  hemlocks  grew  so  dark 
That  I  stopped  to  look  and  hark, 
On  a  log,  with  feather-hat, 
By  the  path,  an  Indian  sat. 

"  Then  I  cried,  and  ran  away  ; 
But  he  called,  and  bade  me  stay  ; 
And  his  voice  was  good  and  mild 
As  my  mother's  to  her  child. 

"  And  he  took  my  wampum  chain. 
Looked  and  looked  it  o'er  again  ; 
Gave  me  berries,  and,  beside, 
On  my  neck  a  plaything  tied." 


MY   PLAYMATE. 


233 


Straight  the  mother  stooped  to  see 
What  the  Indian's  gift  might  be. 
On  the  braid  of  wampum  hung, 
Lo  !  a  cross  of  silver  swung. 

Well  she  knew  its  graven  sign, 
Squando's  bird  and  totem  pine  ; 
And,  a  mirage  of  the  brain. 
Flowed  her  childhood  back  again. 

Flashed  the  roof  the  sunshine  through, 
Into  space  the  walls  outgrew  ; 
On  the  Indian's  wigwam-mat, 
Blossom-crowned,  again  she  sat. 

Cool  she  felt  the  west- wind  blow, 
In  her  ear  the  pines  sang  low, 
And,  like  links  from  out  a  chain, 
Dropped  the  years  of  care  arid  pain. 

From  the  outward  toil  and  din, 
From  the  griefs  that  gnaw  within, 
To  the  freedom  of  the  woods 
Called  the  birds,  and  winds,  and  floods. 

Well,  0  painful  minister  ! 
'Watch  thy  flock,  but  blame  not  her, 
If  her  ear  grew  sharp  to  hear 
All  their  voices  whispering  near. 

Blame  her  not,  as  to  her  soul 
All  the  desert's  glamour  stole, 
That  a  tear  for  childhood's  loss 
Dropped  upon  the  Indian's  cross. 

When,  that  night,  the  Book  was  read, 
And  she  bowed  her  widowed  head, 
And  a  prayer  for  each  loved  name 
Eose  like  incense  from  a  flame, 

To  the  listening  ear  of  Heaven, 
Lo  !  another  name  was  given  : 
"  Father,  give  the  Indian  rest  ! 
Bless  him  !  for  his  love  has  blest  !  " 

MY   PLAYMATE. 

THE  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low  ; 

The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet, 
The  orchard  birds  sang  clear  ; 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 


For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flowers, 
My  playmate  left  her  home, 

And  took  with  her  the  laughing  spring,, 
The  music  and  the  bloom. 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 

She  laid  her  hand  in  mine  : 
What  more  could  ask  the  bashful  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May  : 
The  constant  years  told  o'er 

Their  seasons  Avith  as  sweet  May  morns. 
But  she  came  back  no  more. 

I  walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  the  round 

Of  uneventful  years  ; 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  I  sow  the  spring 

And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 

Her  summer  roses  blow  ; 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go. 

There  haply  with  her  jewelled  hands 
She  smooths  her  silken  gown,  — 

No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 
I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 

The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook, 

The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill, 
And    still  the   May-day   flowers  make 
sweet 

The  woods  of  Follymill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 

The  bird  builds  in  the  tree, 
The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  hill 

The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 

I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 
And  how  the  old  time  seems,  — 

If  ever  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice  : 

Does  she  remember  mine  ? 
And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

What  cares  she  that  the  orioles  build 

For  other  eyes  than  ours,  — 
That  other  hands  with  nuts  are  filled, 

And  other  laps  with  flowers  ? 


POEMS   AND   LYRICS. 


0  playmate  in  tlie  golden  time  ! 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green, 
Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 

The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and  fern 
A  sweeter  memory  blow  ; 


And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 
The  song  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  moaning  like  the  sea,  — 

The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 
Between  myself  and  thee  ! 


POEMS    AND    LYRICS. 


THE  SHADOW  AND  THE  LIGHT. 

"And  I  sought,  whence  is  Evil:  I  set  before 
the  eye  of  my  spirit  the  whole  creation ;  what 
soever  we  see  therein,  —  sea,  earth,  air,  stars, 
trees,  moral  creatures,  —  yea,  whatsoever  there  is 
we  do  not  see,  —  angels  and  spiritual  powers. 
Where  is  evil,  and  whence  comes  it,  since  God 
the  Good  hath  created  all  things  ?  Why  made 
lie  anything  at  all  of  evil,  and  not  rather  by  His 
Almightiuess  cause  it  not  to  be  ?  These  thoughts 
I  turned  in  my  miserable  heart,  overcharged  with 
most  gnawing  cares."  'k  And,  admonished  to  re 
turn  to  myself,  I  entered  even  into  my  inmost 
soul,  Thou  being  my  guide,  and  beheld  even  be 
yond  my  soul  and  mind  the  Light  unchangeable. 
He  who  knows  the  Truth  knows  what  that  Light 
is,  and  he  that  knows  it  knows  Eternity  !  0 
Truth ,  who  art  Eternity  !  Love,  who  art  Truth  ! 
Eternity,  who  art  Love  !  And  I  beheld  that  Thou 
madest  all  things  good,  and  to  Thee  is  nothing 
whatsoever  evil.  From  the  angel  to  the  worm, 
from  the  first  motion  to  the  last,  Thou  settest 
each  in  its  place,  and  everything  is  good  in  its 
kind.  Woe  is  me  !  —  how  high  art  Thou  in  the 
highest,  how  deep  in  the  deepest!  and  Thou 
never  departest  from  us  and  we  scarcely  return 
to  Thee."  —Augustine's  Soliloquies,  Book  VII. 

THE  fourteen  centuries  fall  away 

Between  us  and  the  Afric  saint, 
And  at  his  side  we  urge,  to-day, 
The  immemorial  quest  and  old  complaint. 

No  outward  sign  to  us  is  given,  — 

From  sea  or  earth  comes  no  reply  ; 
Hushed  as  the  warm  Numidian  heaven 
He  vainly  questioned  bends  our  frozen 
sky. 

No  victory  comes  of  all  our  strife,  — 

From  all  we  grasp  the  meaning  slips ; 
The  Sphinx  sits  at  the  gate  of  life, 
With  the  old  question  on  her  awful  lips. 

In  paths  unknown  we  hear  the  feet 
Of  fear  before,  and  guilt  behind  ; 
We  pluck  the  wayside  fruit,  and  eat 
Ashes  and  dust  beneath  its  golden  rind. 


From  age  to  age  descends  unchecked 

The  sad  bequest  of  sire  to  son, 
The  body's  taint,  the  mind's  defect,  — 
Through    every   web  of    life   the   dark 
threads  run. 

0,  why  and  whither  ?  —  God  knows 

all  ; 

I  only  know  that  he  is  good, 
And  that  whatever  may  befall 
Or  here  or  there,  must  be  the  best  that 
could. 

Between  the  dreadful  cherubim 
A  Father's  face  I  still  discern, 
As  Moses  looked  of  old  on  him, 
And  saw  his  glory  into  goodness  turn  ! 

For  he  is  merciful  as  just; 

And  so,  by  faith  correcting  sight, 
I  bow  before  his  will,  and  trust 
Howe'er  they  seem  he  doeth  all  things 
right. 

And    dare    to    hope     that     he    will 

make 
The  rugged  smooth,   the   doubtful 

plain  ; 

His  mercy  never  quite  forsake  ; 
His  healing  visit  every  realm  of  pain  ; 

That  suffering  is  not  his  revenge 

Upon  his  creatures  weak  and  frail, 
Sent  on  a  pathway  new  and  strange 
With  feet   that  wander   and  with  eyes 
that  fail ; 

That,  o'er  the  crucible  of  pain, 

Watches  the  tender  eye  of  Love 
The  slow  transmuting  of  the  chain 
Whose  links  are  iron  below  to    gold 
above  ! 


THE   GIFT   OF   TRITEMIUS. 


235 


Ah  me  !  we  doubt  the  shining  skies, 

Seen  through  our  shadows  of  offence, 
And  drown   with   our   poor   childish 

cries 
The  cradle-hymn  of  kindly  Providence. 

And  still  we  love  the  evil  cause. 

And  of  the  just  effect  complain  : 
We  tread  upon  life's  broken  laws, 
And  murmur  at  our  self-inflicted  pain  ; 

We  turn  ns  from  the  light,  and  find 
Our     spectral     shapes     before     us 

thrown, 

As  they  who  leave  the  sun  behind 
Walk    in   the    shadows   of    themselves 
alone. 

And  scarce  by  will  or  strength  of  ours 

We  set  our  faces  to  the  day  ; 
Weak,   wavering,   blind,   the  Eternal 

Powers 
Alone  can  turn  us  from  ourselves  away. 

Our  weakness  is  the  strength  of  sin, 

But  love  must  needs  be  stronger  far, 
Outreach  ing  all  and  gatlirering  in 
The  erring  spirit  and  the  wandering  star. 

A  Voice  grows  with  the  growing  years  ; 

Earth,  hushing  down  her  bitter  cry, 

Looks  upward  from  her  graves,   arid 

hears, 
"  The  Resurrection  and  the  Life  am  I." 

0     Love    Divine  !  —  whose    constant 

beam 

Shines  on  the  eyes  that  will  not  see, 
And  waits  to  bless  us,  while  we  dream 
Thou  lea  vest  us  because  we  turn  from 
thee  ! 

All  souls  that  struggle  and  aspire, 

All  hearts  of  prayer  by  thee  are  lit  ; 
And,  dim  or  clear,  thy  tongues  of  fire 
On  dusky  tribes  and  twilight  centuries 
sit. 

Nor  bounds,  nor  clime,  nor  creed  thou 

know'st, 

Wide  as  our  need  thy  favors  fall ; 
The  white  wings  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
Stoop,  seen  or  unseen,  o'er  the  heads  of 
all. 

0  Beauty,  old  yet  ever  new  ! 67 
EternvJ  Voice,  and  Inward  Word, 


The  Logos  of  the  Greek  and  Jew, 
The  old  sphere-music  which  the  Samian 
heard,  ! 

Truth  which  the   sage  and  prophet 

saw, 
Long   sought   without,    but   found 

within, 

The  Law  of  Love  beyond  all  law, 
The  Life  o'erflooding  mortal  death  and 
sin  ! 

Shine   on   us   with   the   light   which 

glowed 
Upon  the  trance-bound  shepherd's 

way, 

Who  saw  the  Darkness  overflowed 
And   drowned   by  tides   of  everlasting 
Day.68 

Shine,   light   of  God  !  —  make  broad 

thy  scope 

To  all  who  sin  and  suffer  ;  more 
And  better  than  we  dare  to  hope 
With   Heaven's   compassion  make   our 
longings  poor  ! 


THE  GIFT  OF  TRITEMIUS. 

TRITEMIUS  OF  HEIIBIPOLIS,  one  day, 
While  kneeling  at   the  altar's  foot    to 

pray, 

Alone  with  God,  as  was  his  pious  choice, 
Heard  from  without  a  miserable  voice, 
A  sound  which  seemed  of  all  sad  things 

to  tell, 
As  of  a  lost  soul  crying  out  of  hell. 

Thereat  the   Abbot  paused  ;  the   chain 

whereby 
His  thoughts  went  upward  broken  by 

that  cry  ; 
And,   looking  from  the  casement,   saw 

below 

A  wretched  woman,  with  gray  hair  a-flow, 
And   withered  hands  held   up  to  him, 

who  cried 
For  alms   as   one   who   might    not  be 

denied. 

She  cried,    "For  the  dear  love  of  Him 

who  gave 
His  life  for  ours,  my  child  from  bondage 

save,  — 
My  beautiful,  brave  first-born,  chained 

with  slaves 


236 


POEMS   AND   LYRICS. 


In  the  Moor's  galley,  where  the  sun-smit 

waves 
Lap   the    white    walls    of    Tunis  ! "  — 

"  What  I  can 
I  give,"  Tritemius said  :   "my  prayers." 

—  "  0  man 
Of  God  !  "  she  cried,  for  grief  had  made 

her  bold, 
"  Mock  me  not  thus  ;  I  ask  not  prayers, 

but  gold. 
Words  will  not   serve   me,    alms   alone 

suffice  ; 

Even  while  I  speak  perchance  my  first 
born  dies." 

"  Woman  !  '  Tritemius  answered,  "  from 

our  door 
None  go  unfed  ;  hence   are  we   always 

poor, 

A  single  soldo  is  our  only  store. 
Thou  hast  our  prayers  ;  —  what  can  we 

give  thee  more  ?"- 

"  Give  me,"  she  said,  "  the  silver  can 
dlesticks 

On  either  side  of  the  great  crucifix. 

God  well  may  spare  them  on  his  errands 
sped, 

Or  he  can  give  you  golden  ones  instead." 

Then  spake  Tritemius,    "Even  as  thy 

word, 
Woman,  so  be  it !     (Our  most  gracious 

Lord, 

Who  loveth  mercy  more  than  sacrifice, 
Pardon  me  if  a  human  soul  I  prize 
Above  the  gifts  upon  his  altar  piled  !) 
Take  what  thou  askest,  and  redeem  thy 

child." 

But   his   hand   trembled    as   the    holy 

alms 
He  placed    within  the    beggar's   eager 

palms  ; 
And  as  she  vanished  down  the  linden 

shade, 
He  bowed  his  head  and  for  forgiveness 

prayed. 

So  the  day  passed,  and  when  the  twi 
light  came 

He  woke  to  find  the  chapel  all  aflame, 

And,  dumb  with  grateful  wonder,  to  be 
hold 

Upon  the  altar  candlesticks  of  gold  ! 


THE   EYE   OF   ELECTION. 

FROM  gold  to  gray 

Our  mild  sweet  day 
Of  Indian  Summer  fades  too  soon  ; 

But  tenderly 

Above  the  sea 

Hangs,    white   and   calm,   the   hunter's 
moon. 

In  its  pale  fire, 

The  village  spire 
Shows  like  the  zodiac's  spectral  lance  ; 

The  painted  walls 

Whereon  it  falls 
Transfigured  stand  in  marble  trance  ! 

O'er  fallen  leaves 

The  west- wind  grieves, 
Yet  comes  a  seed-time  round  again  ; 

And  morn  shall  see 

The  State  sown  free 
With  baleful  tares  or  healthful  grain. 

Along  the  street 

The  shadows  meet 
Of  Destiny.,  whose  hands  conceal 

The  moulds  of  fate 

That  shape  the  State, 
And  make  or  mar  the  common  wreal. 

Around  I  see 

The  powers  that  be  ; 
I  stand  by  Empire's  primal  springs  ; 

And  princes  meet, 

In  every  street, 
And  hear  the  tread  of  uncrowned  kings  ! 

Hark  !  through  the  crowd 

The  laugh  runs  loud, 
Beneath  the  sad,  rebuking  moon. 

God  save  the  land 

A  careless  hand 
May  shake  or  swerve  ere  morrow's  noon  ! 

No  jest  is  this  ; 

One  cast  amiss 
May  blast  the  hope  of  Freedom's  year. 

0,  take  me  where 

Are  hearts  of  prayer, 
And  foreheads  bowed  in  reverent  fear  ! 

Not  lightly  fall 

Beyond  recall 
The  written  scrolls  a  breath  can  float  ; 

The  crowning  fact 

The  kingliest  act 
Of  Freedom  is  the  freeman's  vote  I 


THE   OVER-HEART. 


237 


For  pearls  that  gem 

A  diadem 
The  diver  in  the  deep  sea  dies  ; 

The  regal  right 

We  boast  to-night 
Is  ours  through  costlier  sacrifice  ; 

The  blood  of  Vane, 

His  prison  pain 
Who  traced  the  path  the  Pilgrim  trod, 

And  hers  whose  faith 

Drew  strength  from  death, 
And  prayed  her  Russell  up  to  God  ! 

Our  hearts  grow  cold, 

We  lightly  hold 
A  right  which  brave  men  died  to  gain ; 

The  stake,  the  cord, 

The  axe,  the  sword, 
Grim  nurses  at  its  birth  of  pain. 

The  shadow  rend, 
And  o'er  us  bend, 
O    martyrs,     with    your     crowns    and 

palms,  — 

Breathe  through  these  throngs 
Your  battle  songs, 

/our    scaffold    prayers,    and    dungeon 
psalms  ! 

Look  from  the  sky, 

Like  God's  great  eye, 
Thou  solemn  noon,  with  searching  beam, 

Till  in  the  sight 

Of  thy  pure  light 
Our  mean  self-seekings  meaner  seem. 

Shame  from  our  hearts 

Unworthy  arts, 
The  fraud  designed,  the  purpose  dark  ; 

And  smite  away 

The  hands  we  lay 
Profanely  on  the  sacred  ark. 

To  party  claims 

And  private  aims, 
Reveal  that  august  face  of  Truth, 

Whereto  are  given 

The  age  of  heaven, 
The  beauty  of  immortal  youth. 

So  shall  our  voice 

Of  sovereign  choice 
Swell  the  deep  bass  of  duty  done, 

And  strike  the  key 

Of  time  to  be, 
When  God  and  man  shall  speak  as  one  ! 


THE   OVER-HEART. 

"  For  of  Him,  and  through  Him,  and  to  Him 
are  all  things,  to  whom  be  glory  forever !  "  —  PAUL. 

ABOVE,  below,  in  sky  and  sod, 
In  leaf  and  spar,  in  star  and  man, 
Well  might  the  wise  Athenian  scan 

The  geometric  signs  of  God, 

The  measured  order  of  his  plan. 

And  India's  mystics  sang  aright 
Of  the  One  Life  pervading  all, — 
One  Being's  tidal  rise  and  fall 

In  soul  and  form,  in  sound  and  sight,  — 
Eternal  outflow  and  recall. 

God  is  :  and  man  in  guilt  and  fear 
The  central  fact  of  Nature  owns  ;  — 
Kneels,  trembling,  lyy  his  altar-stones, 

And  darkly  drer "us  the  ghastly  smear 
Of  blood  appeases  and  atones. 

Guilt  shapes  the  Terror  :  deep  within 
The  human  heart  the  secret  lies 
Of  all  the  hideous  deities  ; 

And,  painted  on  a  ground  of  sin, 
The  fabled  gods  of  torment  rise  ! 

And  what  is  He  ?  —  The  ripe  grain  nods, 
The  sweet  dews  fall,  the  sweet  flowers 

blow  ; 
But  darker  signs  his  presence  show  : 

The  earthquake  and  the  storm  are  God's, 
And  good  and  evil  interflow. 

0  hearts  of  love  !  0  souls  that  turn 
Like  sunflowers  to  the  pure  and  best ! 
To  you  the  truth  is  manifest : 

For  they  the  mind  of  Christ  discern 
Who  lean  like  John  upon  his  breast ! 

In  him  of  whom  the  sibyl  told, 

For  whom   the  prophet's  harp  was 

toned, 
Whose   need  the   sage    and    magian 

owned, 
The  loving  heart  of  God  behold, 

The  hope  for  which  the  ages  groaned  .' 

Fade,  pomp  of  dreadful  imagery 
Wherewith  mankind  have  deified 
Their  hate,  and  selfishness,  and  pride  ! 

Let  the  scared  dreamer  wake  to  see 
The  Christ  of  Nazareth  at  his  side  ! 

What  doth  that  holy  Guide  require  ?  — - 
No  rite  of  pain,  nor  gift  of  blood, 
But  man  a  kindly  brotherhood, 


238 


POEMS   AND   LYRICS. 


Looking,  where  duty  is  desire, 
To  him,  the  beautiful  and  good. 

Gone  be  the  faithlessness  of  fear, 
And  let  the  pitying  heaven's   sweet 

rain 
Wash  out  the  altar's  bloody  stain  ; 

The  law  of  Hatred  disappear, 
The  law  of  Love  alone  remain. 

How  fall  the  idols  false  and  grim  !  — 
And  lo  !  their  hideous  wreck  above 
The  emblems  of  the  Lamb  and  Dove ! 
Man    turns  from    God,   not   God  from 

him  ; 

And    guilt,    in    suffering,     whispers 
Love  ! 

The  world  sits  at  the  feet  of  Christ, 
Unknowing,  blind,  and  unconsoled  ; 
It  yet  shall  touch  his  garment's  fold, 

And  feel  the  heavenly  Alchemist 
Transform  its  very  dust  to  gold. 

The  theme  befitting  angel  tongues 
Beyond  a  mortal's  scope  has  grown. 
0  heart  of  mine  !  with  reverence  own 

The  fulness  which  to  it  belongs, 

And  trust  the  unknown  for  the  known. 


IN    REMEMBRANCE    OF    JOSEPH 
STURGE. 

IN  the  fair  land  o'erwatched  by  Ischia's 

mountains, 

Across  the  charmed  bay 
Whose  blue  waves  keep  with  Capri's  sil 
ver  fountains 
Perpetual  holiday, 

A  king  lies  dead,  his  wafer  duly  eaten, 
His  gold-bought  masses  given  ; 

And   Rome's  great   altar   smokes   with 

gums  to  sweeten 
Her  foulest  gift  to  Heaven. 

And  while  all  Naples  thrills  with  mute 

thanksgiving, 

The  court  of  England's  queen 
For  the  dead  monster  so  abhorred  while 

living 
In  mourning  garb  is  seen. 

With  a  true  sorrow   God  rebukes  that 

feigning  ; 
By  lone  Edgbaston's  side 


Stands   a  great   city   in   the   sky's  sad 

raining, 
Bareheaded  and  wet-eyed  ! 

Silent  for  once  the  restless  hive  of  labor, 
Save  the  low  funeral  tread, 

Or  voice  of  craftsman  whispering  to  his 

neighbor 
The  good  deeds  of  the  dead. 

For  him  no  minster's  chant  of  the  im 
mortals 

Rose  from  the  lips  of  sin  ; 
No  mitred  priest  swung  back  the  heav 
enly  portals 
To  let  the  white  soul  in. 

But  Age  and  Sickness  framed  their  tear- 

ful  faces 

In  the  low  hovel's  door, 
And  prayers  went  up  from  all  the  dark 

by-places 
And  Ghettos  of  the  poor. 

The  pallid  toiler  and  the  negro  chattel, 
The  vagrant  of  the  street, 

The  human  dice  wherewith  in  games  of 

battle 
The  lords  of  earth  compete, 

Touched  with  a  grief  that  needs  no  out 
ward  draping, 

All  swelled  the  long  lament, 
Of  grateful  hearts,  instead   of  marble, 

shaping 
His  viewless  monument  ! 

For   never  yet,  with   ritual   pomp  and 

splendor, 

In  the  long  heretofore, 
A   heart   more  loyal,  warm,   and   true, 

and  tender, 
Has  England's  turf  closed  o'er. 

And  if  there  fell  from  out  her  grand  old 

steeples 

No  crash  of  brazen  wail, 
The     murmurous     woe     of     kindreds, 

tongues,  and  peoples 
Swept  in  on  every  gale. 

It  came  from  Holstein's  birchen-belted 

meadows, 

And  from  the  tropic  calms 
Of  Indian  islands  in  the  sun-smit  shad. 

ows 
Of  Occidental  palms  ; 


TRINITAS. 


239 


From    the    locked    roadsteads    of   the 

Bothnian  peasants, 
And  harbors  of  the  Finn, 
Where  war's  worn  victims  saw  his  gentle 

presence 
Come  sailing,  Christ-like,  in, 

To  seek  the  lost,  to  build  the  old  waste 

places, 

To  link  the  hostile  shores 
Of  severing  seas,  and   sow   with  Eng 
land's  daisies 
The  moss  of  Finland's  moors. 

Thanks  for  the  good  man's  beautiful 
example, 

Who  in  the  vilest  saw 
Some  sacred  crypt  or  altar  of  a  temple 

Still  vocal  with  God's  law  ; 

And   heard  with  tender  ear  the  spirit 

sighing 
As  from  its  prison  cell, 


trom  its  pi 
r  pity,  lik 


Praying  for  pity,  like  the  mournful  cry 
ing 
Of  Jonah  out  of  hell. 

Not  his  the  golden  pen's  or  lip's  per 
suasion, 

But  a  fine  sense  of  right, 
And  Truth's  directness,  meeting  each 

occasion 
Straight  as  a  line  of  light. 

His  faith  and  works,  like  streams  that 

intermingle, 

In  the  same  channel  ran  : 
The   crystal   clearness   of  an  eye   kept 

single 
Shamed  all  the  frauds  of  man. 

The  very  gentlest  of  all  human  natures 
He  joined  to  courage  strong, 

And  love   outreaching  unto  all   God's 

creatures 
With  sturdy  hate  of  wrong. 

Tender     as    woman ;     manliness    and 

meekness 

In  him  were  so  allied 
That    they  who    judged  him    by    his 

strength  or  weakness 
Saw  but  a  single  side. 

Men  failed,  betrayed  him,  but  his  zeal 

seemed  nourished 
By  failure  and  by  fall ; 


Still  a  large  faith  in  human-kind  he 

cherished, 
And  in  God's  love  for  all. 

And  now  he  rests  :  his  greatness  and  his 

sweetness 

No  more  shall  seem  at  strife  ; 
And  death  has  moulded  into  calm  com 
pleteness 
The  statue  of  his  life. 

Where  the  dews  glisten  and  the  song 
birds  warble, 
His  dust  to  dust  is  laid, 
In  Nature's  keeping,  with  no  pomp  of 

marble 
To  shame  his  modest  shade. 

The  forges  glow,  the  hammers  all  are 

ringing  ; 

Beneath  its  smoky  vale, 
Hard  by,  the  city  of  his  love  is  swing 
ing 
Its  clamorous  iron  flail. 

But  round  his  grave  are  quietude  and 
beauty, 

And  the  sweet  heaven  above,  — • 
The  fitting  symbols  of  a  life  of  duty 

Transfigured  into  love  ! 


TRINITAS. 

AT  morn  I  prayed,  "  I  fain  would  see 
How  Three  are  One,  and  One  is  Three ; 
Read  the  dark  riddle  unto  me." 

I  wandered  forth,  the  sun  and  air 
I  saw  bestowed  with  equal  care 
On  good  and  evil,  foul  and  fair. 

No  partial  favor  dropped  the  rain  ;  — 
Alike  the  righteous  and  profane 
Rejoiced  above  their  heading  grain. 

And  my  heart  murmured,  "  Is  it  meet 
That  blindfold  Nature  thus  should  treat 
With  equal  hand  the  tares  and  wheat  ?  " 

A  presence  melted  through  my  mood,  — 
A  warmth,  a  light,  a  sense  of  good, 
Like  sunshine  through  a  winter  wood. 

I  saw  that  presence,  mailed  complete 
In  her  white  innocence,  pause  to  greet 
A  fallen  sister  of  the  street. 


240 


POEMS   AND   LYRICS. 


Upon  ^er  bosom  snowy  pure 
The  lost  one  clung,  as  if  secure 
From  inward  guilt  or  outward  lure. 

"  Beware  ! "  I  said  ;   "in  this  I  see 
No  gain  to  her,  but  loss  to  thee  : 
Who  touches  pitch  denied  must  be." 

I  passed  the  haunts  of  shame  and  sin, 
And  a  voice  whispered,  "  Who  therein 
Shall  these  lost  souls  to  Heaven's  peace 
win  ? 

"  Who  there  shall  hope  and  health  dis 
pense, 

And  lift  the  ladder  up  from  thence 
Whose  rounds  are  prayers  of  penitence  ?" 

I  said,  "  No  higher  life  they  know  ; 
These  earth-worms  love  to  have  it  so. 
Who  stoops  to  raise  them  sinks  as  low." 

That  night  with  painful  care  I  read 
What  Hippo's  saint  and  Calvin  said,  — 
The  living  seeking  to  the  dead  ! 

In  vain  I  turned,  in  weary  quest, 

Old  pages,  where  (God  give  them  rest !) 

The  poor  creed-mongers  dreamed  and 


And  still  I  prayed,  "  Lord,  let  me  see 
How  Three  are  One,  and  One  is  Three  ; 
Eead  the  dark  riddle  unto  me  !  " 

Then  something  whispered,  ' '  Dost  thou 

pray 

For  what  thou  hast  ?     This  very  day 
The  Holy  Three  have  crossed  thy  way. 

"  Did  not  the  gifts  of  sun  and  air 

To  good  and  ill  alike  declare 

The  all-compassionate  Father's  care  ? 

"In   the  white  soul    that  stooped  to 

raise 

The  lost  one  from  her  evil  ways, 
Thou   saw'st  the   Christ,  whom   angels 

praise  ! 

"  A  bodiless  Divinity, 

The  still  small  Voice  that  spake  to  thee 

Was  the  Holy  Spirit's  mystery  ! 

"  0  blind  of  sight,  of  faith  how  smull  ! 
Father,  and  Son,  and  Holy  Call  ;  — 
This  day  thou  hast  denied  them  all ! 


"  Revealed  in  love  and  sacrifice, 
The  Holiest  passed  before  thine  eyes, 
One  and  the  same,  in  threefold  guise. 

"  The  equal  Father  in  rain  and  sun, 
His  Christ  in  the  good  to  evil  done, 
His  Voice  in  thy  soul  ;  —  and  the  Three 
are  One  !  " 

I  shut  my  grave  Aquinas  fast  ; 
The  monkish  gloss  of  ages  past, 
The  schoolman's  creed  aside  1  cast. 

And  my  heart  answered,  "  Lord,  I  see 
How  Three  are  One,  and  One  is  Three  ; 
Thy  riddle  hath  been  read  to  me  !  " 


THE   OLD   BURYING-GROUND. 

OUR  vales    are    sweet  with    fern    and 
rose, 

Our  hills  are  maple -crowned  ; 
But  not  from  them  our  fathers  chose 

The  village  bury  ing-ground. 

The  dreariest  spot  in  all  the  land 

To  Death  they  set  apart ; 
With  scanty  grace  from  Nature's  hand, 

And  none  from  that  of  Art. 

A  winding  wall  of  mossy  stone, 
Frost-flung  and  broken,  lines 

A  lonesome  acre  thinly  grown 
With  grass  and  wandering  vines. 

Without  the  wall  a  birch -tree  shows 
Its  drooped  and  tasselled  head  ; 

Within,  a  stag-horned  sumach  grows, 
Fern-leafed,  with  spikes  of  red. 

There,  sheep  that  graze  the  neighboring 
plain 

Like  white  ghosts  come  and  go, 
The  farm-horse  drags  his  fetlock  chain, 

The  cowT-bell  tinkles  slow. 

Low  moans  the  river  from  its  bed, 

The  distant  pines  reply  ; 
Like  mourners  shrinking  from  the  dead, 

They  stand  apart  and  sigh. 

Unshaded  smites  the  summer  sun, 
Unchecked  the  winter  blast ; 

The    school-girl    learns    the    place    to 

shun, 
With  glances  backward  cast. 


THE  PIPES  AT  LUCKNOW. 


241 


For  thus  our  fathers  testified,  — 
That  he  might  read  who  ran,  — 

The  emptiness  of  human  pride, 
The  nothingness  of  man. 

They  dared   not   plant  the  grave   with 
flowers, 

Nor  dress  the  funeral  sod, 
Where,  with  a  love  as  deep  as  ours, 

They  left  their  dead  with  God. 

The  hard  and  thorny  path  they  kept 

From  beauty  turned  aside  ; 
Nor  missed  they  over  those  who  slept 

The  grace  to  life  denied. 

Yet    still    the    wilding    flowers    would 
blow, 

The  golden  leaves  would  fall, 
The  seasons  come,  the  seasons  go, 

And  God  be  good  to  all. 

Above  the  graves  the  blackberry  hung 
In  bloom  and  green  its  wreath, 

And  harebells  swung  as  if  they  rung 
The  chimes  of  peace  beneath. 

The  beauty  Nature  loves  to  share, 

The  gifts  she  hath  for  all, 
The  common  light,  the  common  air, 

O'ercrept  the  graveyard's  wall. 

It  knew  the  glow  of  eventide, 

The  sunrise  and  the  noon, 
And  glorified  and  sanctified 

It  slept  beneath  the  moon. 

With  flowers  or  snow-flakes  for  its  sod, 

Around  the  seasons  ran, 
And  evermore  the  love  of  God 

Rebuked  the  fear  of  man. 

We  dwell  with  fears  on  either  hand, 

Within  a  daily  strife, 
And  spectral  problems  waiting  stand 

Before  the  gates  of  life. 

The  doubts  we  vainly  seek  to  solve, 
The  truths  we  know,  are  one  ; 

The  known  and  nameless  stars  revolve 
Around  the  Central  Sun. 

And  if  we  reap  as  we  have  sown, 

And  take  the  dole  we  deal, 
The  law  of  pain  is  love  alone, 

The  wounding  is  to  heal. 
16 


Unharmed  from  change  to   change  we 
glide, 

We  fall  as  in  our  dreams  ; 
The  far-off  terror  at  our  side 

A  smiling  angel  seems. 

Secure  on  God's  all-tender  heart 

Alike  rest  great  and  small ; 
Why  fear  to  lose  our  little  part, 

When  he  is  pledged  for  all  ? 

0  fearful  heart  and  troubled  brain  ! 

Take  hope  and  strength  from  this,  — • 
That  Nature  never  hints  in  vain, 

Nor  prophesies  amiss. 

Her  wild  birds  sing  the  same  sweet  stave, 
Her  lights  and  airs  are  given 

Alike  to  playground  and  the  grave  ; 
And  over  both  is  Heaven. 


THE   PIPES  AT   LUCKNOW. 

PIPES  of  the  misty  moorlands, 

Voice  of  the  glens  and  hills  ; 
The  droning  of  the  torrents, 

The  treble  of  the  rills  ! 
Not  the  braes  of  broom  and  heather, 

Nor  the  mountains  dark  with  rain, 
Nor  maiden  bower,  nor  border  tower, 

Have  heard  your  sweetest  strain  ! 

Dear  to  the  Lowland  reaper, 

And  plaided  mountaineer,  — 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  Scottish  pipes  are  dear  ;  — 
Sweet  sounds  the  ancient  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  loch,  and  glade  ; 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  pipes  at  Lucknow  played. 

Day  by  day  the  Indian  tiger 

Louder  yelled,  and  nearer  crept ; 
Round  and  round  the  jungle-serpent 

Near  and  nearer  circles  swept. 
"  Pray  for  rescue,  wives  and  mothers,  — 

Pray  to-day  !  "  the  soldier  said  ; 
"  To-morrow,  death  's  between  us 

And  the  wrong  and  shame  we  dread.' 

3,  they  listened,  looked,  and  waited, 
Till  their  hope  became  despair  ; 

And  the  sobs  of  low  bewailing 
Filled  the  pauses  of  their  prayer. 

Then  up  spake  a  Scottish  maiden, 
With  her  ear  unto  the  ground  : 


242 


POEMS  AND   LYEICS. 


"  Dinna  ye  hear  it  ?  —  dinna  ye  hear  it  ? 
The  pipes  o'  Havelock  sound  !  " 

Hushed  the  wounded  man  his  groaning  ; 

Hushed  the  wife  her  little  ones  ; 
Alone  they  heard  the  drum-roll 

And  the  roar  of  Sepoy  guns. 
But  to  sounds  of  home  and  childhood 

The  Highland  ear  was  true  ;  — 
As  her  mother's  cradle -crooning 

The  mountain  pipes  she  knew. 

Like  the  march  of  soundless  music 

Through  the  vision  of  the  seer, 
More  of  feeling  than  of  hearing, 

Of  the  heart  than  of  the  ear, 
She  knew  the  droning  pibroch, 

She  knew  the  Campbell's  call : 
'•'  Hark  !  hear  ye  no'  MacGregor's,  — 

The  grandest  o'  them  all  !  " 

0,  they  listened,  dumb  and  breathless, 

And  they  caught  the  sound  at  last  ; 
Faint  and  far  beyond  the  Goomtee 

Rose  and  fell  the  piper's  blast  ! 
Then  a  burst  of  wild  thanksgiving 

Mingled  woman's  voice  and  man's  ; 
"  God  be  praised  !  —  the  march  of  Have- 
lock  ! 

The  piping  of  the  clans  !  " 

Louder,  nearer,  fierce  as  vengeance, 

Sharp  and  shrill  as  swords  at  strife, 
Came  the  wild  MacGregor's  clan -call, 

Stinging  all  the  air  to  life. 
But  when  the  far-off  dust-cloud 

To  plaided  legions  grew, 
Full  tenderly  and  blithesomely 

The  pipes  of  rescue  blew  ! 

Bound  the  silver  domes  of  Lucknow, 

Moslem  mosque  and  Pagan  shrine, 
Breathed  the  air  to  Britons  dearest, 

The  air  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 
O'er  the  cruel  roll  of  war-drums 

Rose  that  sweet  and  homelike  strain  ; 
And  the  tartan  clove  the  turban, 

As  the  Goomtee  cleaves  the  plain. 

Dear  to  the  corn -land  reaper 

And  plaided  mountaineer,  — 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  piper's  song  is  dear. 
Sweet  sounds  the  Gaelic  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  glen,  and  glade  ; 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow  played  ! 


MY  PSALM. 

I  MOURN  no  more  my  vanished  years  : 

Beneath  a  tender  rain, 
An  April  rain  of  smiles  and  tears, 

My  heart  is  young  again. 

The  west-winds  blow,  and,  singing  low, 
I  hear  the  glad  streams  run ; 

The  windows  of  my  sonl  I  throw 
Wide  open  to  the  sun. 

No  longer  forward  nor  behind 

I  look  in  hope  or  fear  ; 
But,  grateful,  take  the  good  I  find, 

The  best  of  now  and  here. 

I  plough  no  more  a  desert  land, 
To  harvest  weed  and  tare  ; 

The  manna  dropping  from  God's  hand 
Rebukes  my  painful  care. 

I  break  my  pilgrim  staff,  —  I  lay 

Aside  the  toiling  oar ; 
The  angel  sought  so  far  away 

1  welcome  at  my  door. 

The  airs  of  spring  may  never  play 

Among  the  ripening  corn, 
Nor  freshness  of  the  flowers  of  May 

Blow  through  the  autumn  morn  ; 

Yet  shall  the  blue-eyed  gentian  look 
Through  fringed  lids  to  heaven, 

And  the  pale  aster  in  the  brook 
Shall  see  its  image  given  ;  — 

The   woods    shall   wear  their  robes   of 
praise, 

The  south-wind  softly  sigh, 
And  sweet,  calm  days  in  golden  haze 

Melt  down  the  amber  sky. 

Not  less  shall  manly  deed  and  word 
Rebuke  an  age  of  wrong  ; 

The    graven   flowers   that   wreathe   the 

sword 
Make  not  the  blade  less  strong. 

But  smiting  hands  shall  learn  to  heal,— 

To  build  as  to  destroy  ; 
Nor  less  my  heart  for  others  feel 

That  I  the  more  enjoy. 

All  as  God  wills,  who  wisely  heeds 
To  give  or  to  withhold, 


LE   MAKAIS  DU   CYGNE. 


243 


And  knoweth  more  of  all  my  needs 
Than  all  my  prayers  have  told  ! 

Enough  that  blessings  undeserved 

Have  marked  my  erring  track  ;  — 

That  wheresoe'er  my  feet  have  swerved, 
His  chastening  turned  me  back  ;  — 

That  more  and  more  a  Providence 

Of  love  is  understood, 
Making  the  springs  of  time  and  sense 

Sweet  with  eternal  good  ;  — 

That  death  seems  but  a  covered  way 

Which  opens  into  light, 
"Wherein  no  blinded  child  can  stray 

Beyond  the  Father's  sight ;  — 

That  care  and  trial  seem  at  last, 
Through  Memory's  sunset  air, 

Like  mountain-ranges  overpast, 
In  purple  distance  fair  ;  — 

That  all  the  jarring  notes  of  life 
Seem  blending  in  a  psalm, 

And  all  the  angles  of  its  strife 
Slow  rounding  into  calm. 

And  so  the  shadows  fall  apart, 
And  so  the  west-winds  play  ; 

And  all  the  windows  of  my  heart 
I  open  to  the  day. 


LE  MAEAIS  DU  CYGNE.69 

A  BLUSH  as  of  roses 

Where  rose  never  grew  ! 
Great  drops  on  the  bunch -grass, 

But  not  of  the  dew  ! 
A  taint  in  the  sweet  air 

For  wild  bees  to  shun  ! 
A  stain  that  shall  never 

Bleach  out  in  the  sun  ! 

Back,  steed  of  the  prairies  ! 

Sweet  song-bird,  fly  back  ! 
Wheel  hither,  bald  vulture  ! 

Gray  wolf,  call  thy  pack  ! 
The  foul  human  vultures 

Have  feasted  and  fled  ; 
The  wolves  of  the  Border 

Have  crept  from  the  dead. 

From  the  hearths  of  their  cabf'as, 
The  fields  of  their  corn, 


Unwarned  and  unweaponed, 
The  victims  were  torn,  — 

By  the  whirlwind  of  murder 
Swooped  up  and  swept  on 

To  the  low,  reedy  fen-lands, 
The  Marsh  of  the  Swan. 

With  a  vain  plea  for  mercy 

No  stout  knee  was  crooked  ; 
In  the  mouths  of  the  rifles 

Right  manly  they  looked. 
How  paled  the  May  sunshine, 

O  Marais  du  Cygne  ! 
On  death  for  the  strong  life, 

On  red  grass  for  green  ! 

In  the  homes  of  their  rearing, 

Yet  warm  with  their  lives, 
Ye  wait  the  dead  only, 

Poor  children  and  wives  ! 
Put  out  the  red  forge -fire, 

The  smith  shall  not  come  ; 
Unyoke  the  brown  oxen, 

The  ploughman  lies  dumb. 

Wind  slow  from  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

0  dreary  death-train, 
With  pressed  lips  as  bloodless 

As  lips  of  the  slain  ! 
Kiss  down  the  young  eyelids, 

Smooth  down  the  gray  hairs  ; 
Let  tears  quench  the  curses 

That  burn  through  your  prayer* 

Strong  man  of  the  prairies, 

Mourn  bitter  and  wild  ! 
Wail,  desolate  woman  ! 

Weep,  fatherless  child  ! 
But  the  grain  of  God  springs  up 

From  ashes  beneath, 
And  the  crown  of  his  harvest 

Is  life  out  of  death. 

Not  in  vain  on  the  dial 

The  shade  moves  along, 
To  point  the  great  contrasts 

Of  right  and  of  wrong  : 
Free  homes  and  free  altars, 

Free  prairie  and  flood,  — 
The  reeds  of  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

Whose  bloom  is  of  blood  ! 

On  the  lintels  of  Kansas 
That  blood  shall  not  dry  ; 

Henceforth  the  Bad  Angel 
Shall  harmless  go  by  ; 


244 


POEMS   AND   LYRICS. 


Henceforth  to  the  sunset, 
Unchecked  on  her  way, 

Shall  Liberty  follow 
The  inarch  of  the  day. 


"THE   ROCK"   IN   EL   GHOR. 

DEAD  Petra  in  her  hill-tomb  sleeps, 
Her  stones  of  emptiness  remain  ; 

Around  her  sculptured  mystery  sweeps 
The  lonely  waste  of  Edom's  plain. 

From  the  doomed  dwellers  in  the  cleft 
The  bow  of  vengeance  turns  not  back  ; 

Of  all  her  myriads  none  are  left 
Along  the  Wady  Mousa's  track. 

Clear  in  the  hot  Arabian  day 

Her  arches  spring,  her  statues  climb  ; 
Unchanged,  the  graven  wonders  pay 

No  tribute  to  the  spoiler,  Time  ! 

Unchanged  the  awful  lithograph 
Of  power  and  glory  undertrod,  — 

Of  nations  scattered  like  the  chaff 
Blown  from  the  threshing-floor  of  God. 

Yet  shall  the  thoughtful  stranger  turn 
From  Petra's  gates,  with  deeper  awe 

To  mark  afar  the  burial  urn 
Of  Aaron  on  the  cliffs  of  Hor ; 

And  where  upon  its  ancient  guard 
Thy  Rock,  El  Ghor,  is  standing  yet, — 

Looks  from  its  turrets  desertward, 
And  keeps  the  wTatch  that  God  has 


The  same  as  Avhen  in  thunders  loud 
It  heard  the  voice  of  God  to  man,  — 

As  when  it  saw  in  fire  and  cloud 
The  angels  walk  in  Israel's  van  ! 

Or  when  from  Ezion-Geber's  way 
It  saw  the  long  procession  file, 

And  heard  the  Hebrew  timbrels  play 
The  music  of  the  lordly  Nile  ; 

Or  saw  the  tabernacle  pause, 

Cloud-bound,     by    Kadesh    Barnea's 

wells, 
While  Moses  graved  the  sacred  laws, 

And  Aaron  swung  his  golden  bells. 

Rock  of  the  desert,  prophet-sung  ! 
How  grew  its  shadowing  pile  at  length, 


A  symbol,  in  the  Hebrew  tongue, 
Of  God's  eternal  love  and  strength. 

On  lip  of  bard  and  scroll  of  seer, 

From  age  to  age  went  down  the  name, 

Until  the  Shiloh's  promised  year, 
And  Christ,  the  Rock  of  Ages,  came  ! 

The  path  of  life  we  walk  to-day 

Is  strange  as  that  the  Hebrews  trod  ; 

We  need  the  shadowing  rock,  as  they,— 
We  need,  like  them,  the  guides  of  God. 

God  send  his  angels,  Cloud  and  Fire, 
To  lead  us  o'er  the  desert  sand  ! 

God  give  our  hearts  their  long  desire, 
His  shadow  in  a  weary  land  ! 


ON  A  PRAYER-BOOK, 

WITH  ^  ITS  FRONTISPIECE,  ARY  SCHEF- 
FEIl's  "  CHRISTUS  CONSOLATOB," 
AMERICANIZED  BY  THE  OMISSION  OF 
THE  BLACK  MAN. 

0  ARY  SCHEFFER  !  when  beneath  thine 

eye, 
Touched  with  the  light  that  cometh 

from  above, 
Grew  the  sweet  picture  of  the   dear 

Lord's  love, 
No    dream   hadst   thou   that   Christian 

hands  would  tear 

Therefrom  the  token  of  his  equal  care, 
And  make  thy  symbol  of  his  truth  a 

lie  ! 
The  poor,  dumb  slave   whose   shackles 

fall  away 
In    his   compassionate  gaze,    grubbed 

smoothly  out, 

To  mar  no  more  the  exercise  devout 
Of  sleek   oppression   kneeling  down  to 

pray 
Where  the  great  oriel  stains  the  Sabbath 

day! 

Let  whoso  can  before  such  praying-books 
Kneel  on  his  velvet  cushion  ;  I,  for 

one, 
Would  sooner  bow,  a  Parsee,  to  the 

sun, 
Or    tend    a  prayer-wheel    in   Thibetar 

brooks, 

Or  beat  a   drum   on   Yedo's  temple- 
floor. 

No  falser  idol  man  has  bowed  before, 
In  Indian  groves  or  islands  of  the  sea, 


TO  J.   T.   F. 


245 


Than  that  which  through  the  quaint- 
carved  Gothic  door 
Looks   forth,  —  a  Church  without  hu 
manity  ! 
Patron  of  pride,   and  prejudice,  and 

wrong,  — 
The  rich  man's  charm   and  fetish  of 

the  strong, 
The  Eternal  Fulness  meted,  clipped,  and 

shorn, 

The  seamless  robe  of  equal  mercy  torn. 
The  dear  Christ  hidden  from  his  kindred 

flesh, 

And,  in  his  poor  ones,  crucified  afresh  ! 

Better  the  simple  Lama  scattering  wide, 

Where   sweeps   the   storm   Alechau's 

steppes  along, 

His  paper  horses  for  the  lost  to  ride, 
And  wearying  Buddha  with  his  prayers 

to  make 

The  figures  living  for  the  traveller's  sake, 
Than  he  who  hopes  with  cheap  praise  to 

beguile 
The  ear  of  God,  dishonoring  man  the 

while  ; 
Who   dreams   the   pearl   gate's   hinges, 

rusty  grown, 
Are  moved  by  flattery's  oil  of  tongue 

alone  ; 

That  in  the  scale  Eternal  Justice  bears 
The  generous  deed  weighs  less  than  self 
ish  prayers, 
And  words  intoned  with  graceful  unction 

move 
The  Eternal  Goodness  more  than  lives 

of  truth  and  love. 
Alas,  the  Church  !  —  The  reverend  head 

of  Jay, 

Enhaloed  with  its  saintly  silvered  hair, 
Adorns   no   more   the   places   of  her 

prayer  ; 
And  brave  young  Tyng,  too  early  called 

away, 
Troubles  the  Haman  of  her  courts  no 

more 
Like  the  just  Hebrew  at  the  Assyrian's 

door  ; 
And  her  sweet  ritual,  beautiful  but 

dead 
As  the  dry  husk  from  which  the  grain 

is  shed, 
And  holy  hymns  from  which  the  life 

devout 
Of  saints  and  martyrs  has  wellnigh 

gone  out, 

Like  candles   dying  in   exhausted 
air, 


For  Sabbath  use  in  measured  grists  are 
ground  ; 

And,  ever  while  the  spiritual  mill  goes 
round, 

Between  the   upper  and  the   nether 
stones, 

Unseen,  unheard,  the  wretched  bond- 

nian  groans, 

And  urges  his  vain. plea,  prayer-smoth 
ered,  anthem -drowned  ! 

0  heart  of  mine,  keep  patience  !  —  Look 
ing  forth, 

As  from  the  Mount  of  Vision,  I  behold, 
Pure,  just,  and  free,  the  Church  of  Christ 

on  earth,  — 
The  martyr's  dream,  the  golden  age 

foretold  ! 
And  found,  at  last,  the  mystic  Graal  I 

see, 
Brimmed  with  His  blessing,  pass  from 

lip  to  lip 

In  sacred  pledge  of  human  fellowship  ; 
And  over  all  the  songs  of  angels  hear,  — 
Songs  of  the  love  that  casteth  out  all 

fear,  — 

Songs  of  the  Gospel  of  Humanity  ! 
Lo  !  in  the  midst,  with  the  same  look 

he  wore, 
Healing  and  blessing  on  Genesaret's 

shore, 
Folding  together,  with  the  all-tender 

might 
Of  his  great  love,  the  dark  hands  and 

the  white, 
Stands  the  Consoler,  soothing  every 

pain, 
Making  all  burdens  light,  and  breaking 

every  chain. 


TO  J.   T.   F. 

ON  A  BLANK  LEAF  OF  "  POEMS  PRINT 
ED,  NOT  PUBLISHED." 

WELL  thought  !  who  would  not  rather 

hear 

The  songs  to  Love  and  Friendship  sung 
Than  those  which  move  the  stranger's 

tongue, 
And  feed  his  unselected  ear  ? 

Dur  social  joys  are  more  than  fame-4 
-ife  withers  in  the  public  look. 
Why  mount  the  pillory  of  a  book. 
Or  barter  comfort  for  a  name  ? 


246 


POEMS   AND   LYRICS. 


Who  in  a  house  of  glass  would  dwell, 
With  curious  eyes  at  every  pane  ? 
To  ring  him  in  and  out  again, 
Who  wants  the  public  crier's  bell  ? 

To  see  the  angel  in  one's  way, 
Who  wants  to  play  the  ass's  part,  — 
Bear  on  his  back  the  wizard  Art, 
And  in  his  service  speak  or  bray  ? 

And  who  his  manly  locks  would  shave, 
And  quench  the  eyes  of  common  sense, 
To  share  the  noisy  recompense 
That  mocked  the   shorn  and    blinded 
slave  ? 

The  heart  has  needs  beyond  the  head, 

And,  starving  in  the  plenitude 

Of   strange    gifts,    craves   its   common 

food,  — 
Our  human  nature's  daily  bread. 

We  are  but  men  :  no  gods  are  we, 
To  sit  in  mid-heaven,  cold  and  bleak, 
Each  separate,  on  his  painful  peak, 
Thin-cloaked  in  self-complacency  ! 

Better  his  lot  whose  axe  is  swung 
In  Wartburg  woods,  or  that  poor  girl's 
Who  by  the  Ilm  her  spindle  whirls 
And  sings  the  songs  that  Luther  sung, 

Than  his  who,  old,  and  cold,  and  vain, 
At  Weimar  sat,  a  demigod, 
And  bowed  with  Jove's  imperial  nod 
His  votaries  in  and  out  again  ! 

Ply,  Vanity,  thy  winged  feet  ! 
Ambition,  hew  thy  rocky  stair  ! 
Who  envies  him  who  feeds  on  air 
The  icy  splendor  of  his  seat  ? 

I  see  your  Alps,  above  me,  cut 
The  dark,  cold  sky  ;  and  dim  and  lone 
I  see  ye  sitting,  —  stone  on  stone,  — 
With  human  senses  dulled  and  shut. 

I  could  not  reach  you,  if  I  would, 
Nor  sit  among  your  cloudy  shapes  ; 
And  (spare  the  fable  of  the  grapes 
And  fox)  I  would  not  if  I  could. 

Keep  to  your  lofty  pedestals  ! 
The  safer  plain  below  I  choose  : 
Who  never  wins  can  rarely  lose, 
Who  never  climbs  as  rarely  falls. 


Let  such  as  love  the  eagle's  scream 
Divide  with  him  his  home  of  ice : 
For  me  shall  gentler  notes  suffice,  — 
The  valley-song  of  bird  and  stream  ; 

The  pastoral  bleat,  the  drone  of  bees, 
The  flail-beat  chiming  far  away, 
The  cattle-low,  at  shut  of  day, 
The  voice  of  God  in  leaf  and  breeze  ! 

Then  lend  thy  hand,  my  wiser  friend, 
And  help  me  to  the  vales  below, 
(In  truth,  I  have  not  far  to  go,) 
Where  sweet  with  flowers  the  fields  ex 
tend. 


THE   PALM-TREE. 

Is  it  the  palm,  the  cocoa-palm, 

On  the  Indian  Sea,  by  the  isles  of  balm  1 

Or  is  it  a  ship  in  the  breezeless  calm.  ? 

A  ship  whose  keel  is  of  palm  beneath, 
Whose  ribs  of  palm  have  a  palm -bark 

sheath, 
And  a  rudder  of  palm  it  steereth  with. 

Branches  of  palm  are  its  spars  and  rails, 
Fibres  of  palm  are  its  woven  sails, 
And  the  rope  is  of  palm  that  idly  trails  ! 

What  does  the  good  ship  bearso  well  ? 
The  cocoa-nut  with  its  stony  shell, 
And  the  milky  sap  of  its  inner  cell. 

What  are  its  jars,  so  smooth  and  fine, 
But  hollowed  nuts,  filled  with  oil  and 

wine, 
And  the  cabbage  that  ripens  under  the 

Line? 

Who  smokes  his  nargileh,  cool  and  calm  ? 
The   master,   whose  cunning  and   skill 

could  charm 
Cargo  and  ship  from  the  bounteous  palm. 

In  the  cabin  he  sits  on  a  palm-mat  soft, 
From   a   beaker   of  palm   his   drink   is 

quaffed, 
And  a  palm-thatch  shields  from  the  sun 

aloft  ! 

His  dress  is  woven  of  palmy  strands, 
And  he  holds  a  palm-leaf  scroll  in  his 

hands, 
Traced  with  the   Prophet's  wise   com« 

mands  ! 


THE  RED   RIVER  VOYAGEUR. 


247 


The  turban  folded  about  his  head 

Was  daintily  wrought  of  the  palm-leaf 

braid, 
And  the  fan  that  cools  him  of  palm  was 

made. 

Of  threads  of  palm  was  the  carpet  spun 
Whereon  he  kneels  when  the  day  is  done, 
And  the  foreheads  of  Islam  are  bowed  as 
one  ! 

To  him  the  palm  is  a  gift  divine, 
Wherein  all  uses  of  man  combine,  — 
House,  and  raiment,  and  food,  and  wine  ! 

And,  in  the  hour  of  his  great  release, 
His  need  of  the  palm  shall  only  cease 
With  the  shroud  wherein  he  lieth  in 
peace. 

"  Allah  il  Allah  !  "  he  sings  his  psalm, 
On  the  Indian  Sea,  by  the  isles  of  balm  ; 
"  Thanks  to  Allah  who  gives  the  palm  ! " 


LINES, 

READ  AT  THE  BOSTON  CELEBRATION  OF 
THE  HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF 
THE  BIRTH  OF  ROBERT  BURNS,  25TH 
1ST  MO.,  1859. 

How  sweetly  come  the  holy  psalms 

From  saints  and  martyrs  down, 
The  waving  of  triumphal  palms 

Above  the  thorny  crown  ! 
The  choral  praise,  the  chanted  prayers 

From  harps  by  angels  strung, 
The  hunted  Cameron's  mountain  airs, 

The  hymns  that  Luther  sung  ! 

Yet,  jarring  not  the  heavenly  notes, 

The  sounds  of  earth  are  heard, 
As  through  the  open  minster  floats 

The  song  of  breeze  and  bird  ! 
Not  less  the  wonder  of  the  sky 

That  daisies  bloom  below  ; 
The  brook  sings  on,  though  loud  and 
high 

The  cloudy  organs  blow  ! 

And,  if  the  tender  ear  be  jarred 

That,  haply,  hears  by  turns 
The  saintly  harp  of  Olney's  bard, 

The  pastoral  pipe  of  Burns, 
No  discord  mars  His  perfect  plan 

Who  gave  them  both  a  tongue  j 


For  he  who  sings  the  love  of  man 
The  love  of  God  hath  sung  ! 

To-day  be  every  fault  forgiven 

Of  him  in  whom  we  joy  ! 
We  take,  with  thanks,  the  gold  of  Heaven 

And  leave  the  earth's  alloy. 
Be  ours  his  music  as  of  spring, 

His  sweetness  as  of  flowers, 
The  songs  the  bard  himself  might  sing 

In  holier  ears  than  ours. 

Sweet  airs  of  love  and  home,  the  hum 

Of  household  melodies, 
Come  singing,  as  the  robins  come 

To  sing  in  door-yard  trees. 
And,  heart  to  heart,  two  nations  lean, 

No  rival  wreaths  to  twine, 
But  blending  in  eternal  green 

The  holly  and  the  pine  ! 


THE   RED   EIVER  VOYAGEUR. 

OUT  and  in  the  river  is  winding 
The  links  of  its  long,  red  chain 

Through  belts  of  dusky  pine-land 
And  gusty  leagues  of  plain. 

Only,  at  times,  a  smoke-wreath 

With  the  drifting  cloud-rack  joins,  — 

The  smoke  of  the  hunting-lodges 
Of  the  wild  Assiniboins  ! 

Drearily  blows  the  north-wind 
From  the  land  of  ice  and  snow  ; 

The  eyes  that  look  are  weary, 
And  heavy  the  hands  that  row. 

And  with  one  foot  on  the  water, 

And  one  upon  the  shore, 
The  Angel  of  Shadow  gives  warning 

That  day  shall  be  no  more. 

Is  it  the  clang  of  wild-geese  ? 

Is  it  the  Indian's  yell, 
That  lends  to  the  voice  of  the  north 
wind 

The  tones  of  a  far-off  bell  ? 

The  voyageur  smiles  as  he  listens 
To  the  sound  that  grows  apace  ; 

Well  he  knows  the  vesper  ringing 
Of  the  bells  of  St.  Boniface. 

The  bells  of  the  Roman  Mission, 
That  call  from  their  turrets  twain. 


248 


POEMS   AND   LYRICS. 


To  the  boatman  on  the  river, 
To  the  hunter  on  the  plain  ! 

Even  so  in  our  mortal  journey 
The  bitter  north-winds  blow, 

And  thus  upon  life's  Red  River 
Our  hearts,  as  oarsmen,  row. 

And  when  the  Angel  of  Shadow 
Rests  his  feet  on  wave  and  shore, 

And  our  eyes  grow  dim  with  watchin< 
And  our  hearts  faint  at  the  oar, 

Happy  is  he  who  heareth 
•  The  signal  of  his  release 
In  the  bells  of  the  Holy  City, 
The  chimes  of  eternal  peace  ! 


KENOZA   LAKE. 

As  Adam  did  in  Paradise, 

To-day  the  primal  light  we  claim  : 
Fair  mirror  of  the  woods  and  skies, 

We  give  to  thee  a  name. 

Lake  of  the  pickerel  !  —  let  no  more 
The  echoes  answerback,  ' '  Great  Pond, " 

But  sweet  Kenoza,  from  thy  shore 
And  watching  hills  beyond, 

Let  Indian  ghosts,  if  such  there  be 
Who  ply  unseen  their  shadowy  lines, 

^all  back  the  ancient  name  to  thee, 
As  with  the  voice  of  pines. 

The  shores  we  trod  as  barefoot  boys, 
The     nutted    woods    we     wandered 
through, 

To  friendship,  love,  and  social  joys 
We  consecrate  anew. 

Here  shall  the  tender  song  be  sung, 
And  memory's  dirges  soft  and  low, 

And  wit  shall  sparkle  on  the  tongue, 
And  mirth  shall  overflow, 

Harmless  as  summer  lightning  plays 
From  a  low,  hidden  cloud  by  night, 

A  light  to  set  the  hills  ablaze, 
But  not  a  bolt  to  smite. 

In  sunny  South  and  prairied  West 
Are  exiled  hearts  remembering  still, 


As  bees  their  hive,  as  birds  their  nest, 
The  homes  of  Haverhill. 

They  join  us  in  our  rites  to-day  ; 

And,    listening,    we    may   hear,    ere 
long, 
From  inland  lake  and  ocean  bay, 

The  echoes  of  our  song. 

Kenoza  !   o'er  no  sweeter  lake 

Shall   morning  break   or   noon-cloud 

sail,  — 
No  fairer  face  than  thine  shall  take 

The  sunset's  golden  veil. 

Long  be  it  ere  the  tide  of  trade 

Shall    break    with    harsh-resounding 
din 

The  quiet  of  thy  banks  of  shade, 
And  hills  that  fold  thee  in. 

Still  let  thy  woodlands  hide  the  hare, 
The  shy  loon  sound  his  trumpet-note, 

Wing-weary  from  his  fields  of  air, 
The  wild-goose  on  thee  float. 

Thy  peace  rebuke  our  feverish  stir, 


Thy  beauty  our  deforming  strife  ; 
Thy  woods  and  waters  minister 
The  healing  of  their  life. 

And  sinless  Mirth,  from  care  released, 
Behold,  unawed,  thy  mirrored  sky, 

Smiling  as  smiled  on  Cana's  feast 
The  Master's  loving  eye. 


And  when  the  summer  day  grows  dim, 
And  light  mists  walk  thy  mimic  sea, 

Revive  in  us  the  thought  of  Him 
Who  walked  on  Galilee  ! 


TO  G.  B.  C. 

So  spake  Esaias  :  so,  in  words  of  flame, 
Tekoa's   prophet-herdsman   smote   with 

blame 
The  traffickers  in  men,  and  put  to  shame, 

All  earth  and  heaven  before, 
The  sacerdotal  robbers  of  the  poor. 

All  the  dread  Scripture  lives    for  thee 

again, 
To   smite  like   lightning  on  the  hfnds 

profane 
Lifted  to  bless  the  slave-whip  and   the 

chain. 


THE   PREACHER. 


249 


Once  more  the  old  Hebrew  tongue 
Bends   with  the   shafts  of  God  a  bow 
new-strung  ! 

Take  up  the  mantle  which  the  prophets 

wore  ; 
Warn  with  their  warnings,  —  show  the 

Christ  once  more 
Bound,    scourged,    and  crucified  in  his 

blameless  poor  ; 
And  shake  above  our  land 
The  unquenched  bolts   that   blazed   in 

Hosea's  hand  ! 

Not  vainly   shalt   thou    cast   upon  our 
years 

The  solemn  burdens  of  the  Orient  seers, 

And  smite  with  truth  a  guilty  nation's 

ears. 
Mightier  was  Luther's  word 

Than  Seckingen's  mailed  arm   or  Hut- 
ton's  sword  ! 


THE  SISTERS. 

A   PICTURE    BY   BARRY. 

THE  shade  for  me,  but  over  thee 
The  lingering  sunshine  still ; 

As,  smiling,  to  the  silent  stream 
Comes  down  the  singing  rill. 

So  come  to  me,  my  little  one,  — • 
My  years  with  thee  I  share, 

And  mingle  with  a  sister's  love 
A  mother's  tender  care. 

But  keep  the  smile  upon  thy  lip, 

The  trust  upon  thy  brow  ; 
Since  for  the  dear  one  God  hath  called 

We  have  an  angel  now. 

Our  mother  from  the  fields  of  heaven 

Shall  still  her  ear  incline  ; 
Nor  need  we  fear  her  human  love 

Is  less  for  love  divine. 

The  songs  are  sweet  they  sing  beneath 

The  trees  of  life  so  fair, 
But  sweetest  of  the  songs  of  heaven 

Shall  be  her  children's  prayer. 

Then,  darling,  rest  upon  my  breast, 
And  teach  my  heart  to  lean 

With  thy  sweet  trust  upon  the  arm 
"Which  folds  us  both  unseen  ! 


LINES, 

FOR  THE  AGRICULTURAL  AND  HORTI 
CULTURAL  EXHIBITION  AT  AMESBURY 
AND  SALISBURY,  SEPT.  28,  1858. 

THIS  day,  two  hundred  years  ago, 
The  wild  grape  by  the  river's  side, 

And  tasteless  groundnut  trailing  low, 
The  table  of  the  woods  supplied. 

Unknown  the  apple's  red  and  gold, 
The  blushing  tint  of  peach  and  peur  ?. 

The  mirror  of  the  Powow  told 
No  tale  of  orchards  ripe  and  rare. 

Wild  as  the  fruits  he  scorned  to  till, 
These  vales  the  idle  Indian  trod  ; 

Nor  knew  the  glad,  creative  skill,  — 
The  joy  of  him  who  toils  with  God. 

0  Painter  of  the  fruits  and  flowers  ! 

We  thank  thee  for  thy  wise  design 
Whereby  these  human  hands  of  ours 

In  Nature's  garden  work  with  thine. 

And  thanks  that  from  our  daily  need 
The  joy  of  simple  faith  is  born  ; 

That  he  who  smites  the  summer  weed, 
May  trust  thee  for  the  autumn  corn. 

Give  fools  their  gold,  and  knaves  their 
power  ; 

Let  fortune's  bubbles  rise  and  fall  ; 
Who  sows  a  field,  or  trains  a  flower, 

Or  plants  a  tree,  is  more  than  all. 

For  he  who  blesses  most  is  blest ; 

And  God  and  man  shall  own  his  worth 
Who  toils  to  leave  as  his  bequest 

An  added  beauty  to  the  earth. 

And,  soon  or  late,  to  all  that  sow, 
The  time  of  harvest  shall  be  given  ; 

The  flower  shall  bloom,  the  fruit  shall 

grow, 
If  not  on  earth,  at  last  in  heaven 


THE   PREACHER. 

ITS  windows  flashing  to  the  sky, 
Beneath  a  thousand  roofs  of  brown, 

Far  down  the  vale,  my  friend  and  I 
Beheld  the  old  and  quiet  town  ; 

The  ghostly  sails  that  out  at  sea 

Flapped  their  white  wings  of  mystery 


250 


POEMS  AND   LYRICS. 


The  beaches  glimmering  in  the  sun, 
And  the  low  wooded  capes  that  run 
Into  tke  sea-mist  north  and  south  ; 
The  sand-bluffs  at  the  river's  mouth  ; 
The  swinging  chain -bridge,  and,  afar, 
The  foam-line  of  the  harbor-bar. 

Over  the  woods  and  meadow-lands 
A  crimson-tinted  shadow  lay 
Of  clouds  through  which  the  setting 

day 
Flung  a  slant  glory  far  away. 

It  glittered  on  the  wet  sea-sands, 
It  flamed  upon  the  city's  panes, 

Smote  the  white  sails  of  ships  that  wore 

Outward  or  in,  and  glided  o'er 

The  steeples  with  their  veering  vanes  ! 

Awhile  my  friend  with  rapid  search 
O'erran  the  landscape.     ' '  Yonder  spire 
Over  gray  roofs,  a  shaft  of  fire  ; 
"What  is  it,'  pray  ?"  —  "  The  Whitefield 

Church  ! 

Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 
There    rest    the     marvellous    prophet's 

bones." 

Then  as  our  homeward  way  we  walked, 
Of  the  great  preacher's  life  we  talked  ; 
And  through  the  mystery  of  our  theme 
The  outward  glory  seemed  to  stream, 
And  Nature's  self  interpreted 
The  doubtful  record  of  the  dead  ; 
And  every  level  beam  that  smote 
The  sails  upon  the  dark  afloat 
A  symbol  of  the  light  became 
Which  touched   the   shadows  of  our 

blame 
With  tongues  of  Pentecostal  flame. 

Over  the  roofs  of  the  pioneers 
Gathers  the  moss  of  a  hundred  years  ; 
On  man  and  his  works  has  passed  the 

change 
Which  needs   must   be   in   a  century's 

range. 

The  land  lies  open  and  warm  in  the  sun, 
Anvils  clamor  and  mill-wheels  run,  — 
Flocks  on   the  hillsides,  herds    on   the 

plain, 
The  wilderness  gladdened  with  fruit  and 

grain  ! 

But  the  living  faith  of  the  settlers  old 
A  dead  profession  their  children  hold  ; 
To  the  lust  of  office  and  greed  of  trade 
A  stepping-stone  is  the  altar  made. 
The   Church,    to   place   and  power  the 

door, 


Rebukes  the  sin  of  the  world  no  more, 
Nor  sees  its  Lord  in  the  homeless  poor. 
Everywhere  is  the  grasping  hand, 
And  eager  adding  of  land  to  land  ; 
And  earth,  which  seemed  to  the  fathers 

meant 

But  as  a  pilgrim's  wayside  tent,  — 
A  nightly  shelter  to  fold  away 
When  the  Lord  should  call  at  the  break 

of  day, — 

Solid  and  steadfast  seems  to  be, 
And  Time  has  forgotten  Eternity  ! 

But   fresh   and  green  from  the  rotting 

roots 
Of    primal   forests   the    young    growth 

shoots  ; 

From  the  death  of  the  old  the  new  pro 
ceeds, 
And  the  life  of  truth  from  the   rot  of 

creeds  : 

On  the  ladder  of  God,  which  upward  leads, 
The  steps  of  progress  are  human  needs. 
For    his  judgments  still  are  a  mighty 

deep, 
And  the  eyes  of  his  providence  never 

sleep  : 
When  the  night  is  darkest  he  gives  the 

morn  : 
When  the   famine  is   sorest,    the   wine 

and  corn  ! 

In  the  church  of  the  wilderness  Edwards 

wrought, 
Shaping    his    creed    at    the    forge    of 

thought ; 
And  with  Thor's  own   hammer  welded 

and  bent 

The  iron  links  of  his  argument, 
Which  strove  to  grasp  in  its  mighty  span 
The  purpose  of  God  and  the  fate  of  man  ! 
Yet  faithful  still,  in  his  daily  round 
To  the  weak,  and  the  poor,  and  sin-sick 

found, 

The  schoolman's  lore  and  the  casuist's  art 
Drew  warmth  and  life  from  his  fervent 

heart. 

Had  he  not  seen  in  the  solitudes 
Of  his    deep    and   dark    Northampton 

Avoods 

A  vision  of  love  about  him  fall  ? 
Not  the  blinding  splendor  which  fell  on 

Saul, 

But  the  tenderer  glory  that  rests  on  them 
Who  walk  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 
Where  never    the   sun    nor  moon   are 

known, 


THE   PREACHER. 


251 


But  the  Lord  and  his  love  are  the  light 

alone  ! 

And  watching  the  sweet,  still  countenance 
Of  the  wife  of  his  bosom  rapt  in  trance, 
Had  he  not  treasured  each  broken  word 
Of  the  mystical  wonder  seen  and  heard ; 
Arid  loved  the  beautiful  dreamer  more 
That  thus  to  the  desert  of  earth  she  bore 
Clusters  of  Eschol  from  Canaan's  shore  ? 

As  the  barley-winnower,   holding  with 

pain 

Aloft  in  waiting  his  chaff  and  grain, 
Joyfully  welcomes  the  far-off  breeze 
Sounding  the  pine-tree's  slender  keys, 
So  he  who  had  waited  long  to  hear 
The  sound  of  the  Spirit  drawing  near, 
Like  that  which  the  son  of  Iddo  heard 
When  the   feet  of  angels   the   myrtles 

stirred, 

Felt  the  answer  of  prayer,  at  last, 
As  over  his  church  the  afflatus  passed, 
Breaking  its  sleep  as  breezes  break 
To  sun-bright  ripples  a  stagnant  lake. 

At  first  a  tremor  of  silent  fear, 
The  creep  of  the  flesh  at  danger  near, 
A  vague  foreboding  and  discontent, 
Over  the  hearts  of  the  people  went. 
All  nature  warned  in  sounds  and  signs  : 
The  wind  in  the  tops  of  the  forest  pines 
In  the  name  of  the  Highest   called  to 

prayer, 
As  the  muezzin  calls  from  the  minaret 

stair. 

Through  ceiled  chambers  of  secret  sin 
Sudden  and  strong  the  light  shone  in  ; 
A  guilty  sense  of  his  neighbor's  needs 
Startled  the  man  of  title-deeds  ; 
The   trembling  hand   of  the   worldling 

shook 

The  dust  of  years  from  the  Holy  Book  ; 
And  the  psalms  of  David,  forgotten  long, 
Took  the  place  of  the  scoffer's  song. 

The   impulse    spread   like  the    outward 

course 

Of  waters  moved  by  a  central  force  : 
The  tide  of  spiritual  life  rolled  down 
From    inland    mountains    to    seaboard 

town. 

Prepared  and  ready  the  altar  stands 
Waiting     the     prophet's     outstretched 

hands 

And  prayer  availing,  to  downward  call 
The  fiery  answer  in  view  of  all. 


Hearts  are  like  wax  in  the  furnace,  who 
Shall  mould,  and  shape,  and  cast  them 

anew  ? 
Lo  !    by  the   Merrimack  WHITEFIELD 

stands 
In  the  temple  that  never  was  made  by 

hands,  — 

Curtains  of  azure,  and  crystal  wall, 
And  dome  of  the  sunshine  over  all  !  — 
A  homeless  pilgrim,  with  dubious  name 
Blown  about  on  the  winds  of  fame  ; 
Now  as  an  angel  of  blessing  classed, 
And  now  as  a  mad  enthusiast. 
Called  in  his  youth  to  sound  and  gauge 
The  moral  lapse  of  his  race  and  age, 
And,  sharp  as  truth,  the  contrast  draw 
Of  human  frailty  and  perfect  law  ; 
Possessed  by  the  one  dread  thought  that 

lent 

Its  goad  to  his  fiery  temperament, 
Up  and  down  the  world  he  went, 
A  John  the  Baptist  crying,  — Repent ! 

No  perfect  whole  can  our  nature  make  : 
Here  or  there  the  circle  will  break  ; 
The  orb  of  life  as  it  takes  the  light 
On  one  side  leaves  the  other  in  night. 
Never  was  saint  so  good  and  great 
As  to  give  no  chance  at  St.  Peter's  gate 
For  the  plea  of  the  Devil's  advocate. 
i  So,  incomplete  by  his  being's  law, 
'  The  marvellous  preacher  had  his  flaw  : 
With  step  unequal,  and  lame  with  faults, 
His  shade  on  the  path  of  History  halts. 

Wisely  and  well  said  the  Eastern  bard  : 
Fear  is  easy,  but  love  is  hard,  — 
Easy  to  glow  with  the  Santon's  rage, 
And  walk  on  the  Meccan  pilgrimage  ; 
But  he  is  greatest  and  best  who  can 
Worship  Allah  by  loving  man. 

Thus   he,  —  to   whom,    in   the    painful 

stress 

Of  zeal  on  fire  from  its  own  excess,  ( 

Heaven  seemed  so  vast  and  earth  so  small 
That  man  was  nothing,  since  God  was 

all,- 

Forgot,  as  the  best  at  times  have  done, 
That  the  love  of  the  Lord  and  of  man 


Little  to  him  whose  feet  unshod 
The  thorny  path  of  the  desert  trod, 
Careless  of  pain,  so  it  led  to  God, 
Seemed  the  hunger-pang  and  the  poor 
man's  wrong, 


252 


POEMS   AND   LYRICS. 


The    weak   ones  trodden    beneath   the 

strong. 
Should    the   worm   be    chooser  ?  —  the 

clay  withstand 
The  shaping  will  of  the  potter's  hand  ? 

In  the  Indian  fable  Arjoon  hears 
The  scorn  of  a  god  rebuke  his  fears  : 
"Spare  thy  pity  !  "  Krishna saith  ; 
"Not   in   thy   sword   is   the  power  of 

death  ! 

All  is  illusion,  —  loss  but  seems  ; 
Pleasure  and  pain  are  only  dreams  ; 
Who  deems  he  slayeth  doth  not  kill  ; 
Who  counts  as  slain  is  living  still. 
Strike,  nor  fear  thy  blow  is  crime  ; 
Nothing  dies  but  the  cheats  of  time  ; 
Slain  or  slayer,  small  the  odds 
To  each,  immortal  as  Indra's  gods  !  " 

So  by  Savannah's  banks  of  shade, 

The  stones  of  his   mission  the  preacher 

laid 
On  the  heart  of  the  negro  crushed  and 

rent, 

And  made  of  his  blood  the  wall's  cement ; 
Bade  the  slave-ship  speed  from  coast  to 

coast 

Fanned  by  the  wings  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; 
And  begged,  for  the  love  of  Christ,  the 

gold 
Coined  from  the  hearts  in  its  groaning 

hold. 

What  could  it  matter,  more  or  less 
Of  stripes,  and  hunger,  and  weariness  ? 
Living  or  dying,  bond  or  free, 
What  was  time  to  eternity  ? 

Alas  for  the  preacher's  cherished  schemes ! 
Mission  and  church  are  now  but  dreams  ; 
Nor  prayer  nor  fasting  availed  the  plan 
To    honor   God  through   the  wrong  of 

man. 

Of  all  his  labors  no  trace  remains 
Save  the  bondman  lifting  his  hands  in 

chains. 

The  woof  he  wove  in  the  righteous  warp 
Of  freedom-loving  Oglethorpe, 
Clothes  with  curses  the  goodly  land, 
Changes  its  greenness  and  bloom  to  sand  ; 
And  a  century's  lapse  reveals  once  more 
The    slave-ship    stealing    to    Georgia's 

shore. 

Father  of  Light !  how  blind  is  he 
Who  sprinkles  the  altar  he  rears  to  Thee 
With  the  blood  and  tears  of  human 
ity  I 


He  erred  :  Shall  we  count  his   gifts  as 

naught  ? 

Was  the  work  of  God  in  him  unwrought  ? 
The  servant  may  through  his  deafness 

err, 

And  blind  may  be  God's  messenger ; 
But  the  errand  is  sure  they  go  upon,  — 
The  word  is  spoken,  the  deed  is  done. 
Was   the  Hebrew   temple  less  fair   and 

good 

That  Solomon  bowed  to  gods  of  wood  ? 
For  his  tempted  heart   and  wandering 

feet, 
Were  the  songs  of  David  less  pure  and 

sweet  ? 
So  in    light  and   shadow   the   preacher 

went, 

God's  erring  and  human  instrument ; 
And  the  hearts  of  the  people  where  he 

passed 

Swayed  as  the  reeds  sway  in  the  blast, 
Under  the  spell  of  a  voice  which  took 
In  its  compass  the  flow  of  Siloa's  brook, 
And  the  mystical  chime  of  the  bells  of 

gold 

On  the  ephod's  hem  of  the  priest  of  old,  — 
Now  the  roll  of  thunder,  and  now  the  awe 
Of  the  trumpet  heard  in  the  Mount  of 

Law. 

A  solemn  fear  on  the  listening  crowd 
Fell  like  the  shadow  of  a  cloud. 
The  sailor  reeling  from  out  the  ships 
Whose  masts  stood  thick  in  the  river- 
slips 
Felt  the  jest  and  the  curse  die  on  his 

lips. 

Listened  the  fisherman  rude  and  hard, 
The    calker  rough   from   the    builder'^ 

yard, 

The  man  of  the  market  left  his  load, 
The  teamster  leaned  on  his  bending  goad, 
The  maiden,  and  youth  beside  her,  felt 
Their  hearts  in  a  closer  union  melt, 
And   saw    the   ilowers   of  their  love  in 

bloom 

Down  the  endless  vistas  of  life  to  come. 
Old  age  sat  feebly  brushing  away 
From  his  ears  the  scanty  locks  of  gray  ; 
And  careless  boyhood,  living  the  free. 
Unconscious  life  of  bird  and  tree, 
Suddenly  wakened  to  a  sense 
Of  sin  and  its  guilty  consequence. 
It  was  as  if  an  angel's  voice 
Called   the    listeners    up  for  their  final 

choice  ; 
As  if  a  strong  hand  rent  apart 


THE   PREACHER. 


253 


The  veils  of  sense  from  soul  and  heart, 

Showing  in  light  ineffable 

The  joys  of  heaven  and  woes  of  hell  ! 

All  about  in  the  misty  air 

The  hills  seemed  kneeling  in  silent 
prayer  ; 

The  rustle  of  leaves,  the  moaning  sedge, 

The  water's  lap  on  its  gravelled  edge, 

The  wailing  pines,  and,  far  and  faint, 

The  wood-dove's  note  of  sad  com 
plaint,  — 

To  the  solemn  voice  of  the  preacher 
lent 

An  undertone  as  of  low  lament  ; 

And  the  rote  of  the  sea  from  its  sandy 
coast, 

On  the  easterly  wind,  now  heard,  now 
lost, 

Seemed  the  murmurous  sound  of  the 
judgment  host. 

Yet  wise  men  doubted,  and  good   men 

wept, 
As  that  storm   of  passion   above   them 

swept, 

And,  comet-like,  adding  flame  to  flame, 
The  priests  of  the  new  Evangel  came,  — 
Davenport,  flashing  upon  the  crowd, 
Charged  like  summer's  electric  cloud, 
Now  holding  the  listener  still  as  death 
With  terrible  warnings  under  breath, 
Now  shouting  for  joy,  as  if  he  viewed 
The  vision  of  Heaven's  beatitude  ! 
And    Celtic    Tennant,    his    long     coat 

bound 
Like    a    monk's   with    leathern    girdle 

round, 

Wild  with  the  toss  of  unshorn  hair, 
And  wringing  of  hands,  and  eyes  aglare, 
Groaning  under  the  world's  despair  ! 
Grave  pastors,  grieving  their  flocks   to 

lose, 

Prophesied  to  the  empty  pews 
That  gourds  would  wither,   and  mush 
rooms  die, 

And  noisiest  fountains  run  soonest  dry, 
Like  the  spring   that   gushed  in  New- 

bury  Street, 
Under  the   tramp   of  the   earthquake's 

feet, 

A  silver  shaft  in  the  air  and  light, 
For  a  single  day,  then  lost  in  night, 
Leaving  only,  its  place  to  tell, 
Sandy  fissure  and  sulphurous  smell. 
With  zeal  wing-clipped  and  white-heat 

cool, 
Moved  by  the  spirit  in  grooves  of  rule, 


No   longer  harried,  and  cropped,    and 

fleeced, 

Flogged  by  sheriff  and  cursed  by  priest, 
But  by  wiser  counsels  left  at  ease 
To  settle  quietly  on  his  lees, 
And,  self-concentred,  to  count  as  done 
The  work  which  his  fathers  scarce  begun, 
In  silent  protest  of  letting  alone, 
The  Quaker  kept  the  way  of  his  own,  — - 
A  non-conductor  among  the  wires, 
With  coat  of  asbestos  proof  to  iires. 
And  quite  unable  to  mend  his  pace 
To  catch  the  falling  manna  of  grace, 
He  hugged  the  closer  his  little  store 
Of  faith,  and  silently  prayed  lor  more. 
And  vague  of  creed  and  barren  of  rite, 
But  holding,  as  in  his  Master's  sight, 
Act  and  thought  to  the  inner  light, 
The  round  of  his  simple  duties  walked, 
And  strove  to  live  what  the  others  talked. 

And  who  shall  marvel  if  evil  went 
Step  by  step  with  the  good  intent, 
And  with  love  and  meekness,  side  by 

side, 

Lust  of  the  flesh  and  spiritual  pride  ?  — 
That   passionate    longings    and  fancies 

vain 
Set  the  heart   on    fire   and   crazed   the 

brain  ?  — 

That  over  the  holy  oracles 
Folly  sported  with  cap  and  bells  ? — 
That  goodly  women  and  learned  men 
Marvelling  told  with  tongue  and  pen 
How   imweaned   children    chirped   like 

birds 

Texts  of  Scripture  and  solemn  words, 
Like  the  infant  seers  of  the  rocky  glens 
In  the  Puy  de  Dome  of  wild  Cevennes  : 
Or  baby  Lamas  who  pray  and  preach 
From     Tartar      cradles     in     Buddha's 

speech  ? 

In  the   war  which  Truth  or  Freedom 

wages 
With  impious  fraud  and  the  wrong  of 

ages, 

Hate  and  malice  and  self-love  mar 
The  notes  of  triumph  with  painful  jar, 
And  the  helping  angels  turn  aside 
Their  sorrowing  faces  the  shame  to  hide. 
Never  on  custom's  oiled  grooves 
The  world  to  a  higher  level  moves, 
But  grates  and  grinds  with  friction  hard 
On  granite  boulder  and  flinty  shard. 
The  heart  must  bleed  before  it  feels, 
The  pool  be  troubled  before  it  heals ; 


254 


POEMS   AND   LYRICS. 


Ever  by  losses  the  right  must  gain, 
Every  good  have  its  birth  of  pain  ; 
The  active  Virtues  blush  to  find 
The  Vices  wearing  their  badge  behind, 
And  Graces  and  Charities  feel  the  fire 
Wherein  the  sins  of  the  age  expire  : 
The  fiend  still  rends  as  of  old  he  rent 
The  tortured  body  from  which  he  went. 

But  Time  tests  all.     In  the  over-drift 
And  flow  of  the  Nile,  with  its  annual 

gift, 

Who  cares  for  the  Hadji's  relics  sunk  ? 
Who  thinks  of  the  drowned-out  Coptic 

monk? 
The    tide    that    loosens    the    temple's 

stones, 

And  scatters  the  sacred  ibis-bones, 
Drives  away  from  the  valley -land 
That  Arab  robber,  the  wandering  sand, 
Moistens  the  fields  that  know  no  rain, 
Fringes  the  desert  with  belts  of  grain, 
And  bread  to  the  sower  brings  again. 
So  the  flood  of  emotion  deep  and  strong 
Troubled  the  land  as  it  swept  along, 
But  left  a  result  of  holier  lives, 
Tenderer  mothers  and  worthier  wives. 
The  husband  and  father  whose  children 

fled 
And  sad  wife  wept  when   his   drunken 

tread 
Frightened   peace   from   his    roof- tree's 

shade, 
And  a  rock  of  offence  his  hearthstone 

made, 

In  a  strength  that  was  not  his  own,  be 
gan 
To  rise  from  the  brute's  to  the  plane  of 

man. 

Old  friends  embraced,  long  held  apart 
By  evil  counsel  and  pride  of  heart  ; 
And  penitence  saw  through  misty  tears, 
In  the  bow  of  hope  on  its  cloud  of  fears, 
The      promise     of      Heaven's      eternal 

years,  — 

The  peace  of  God  for  the  world's   an 
noy, — 
Beauty  for  ashes,  and  oil  of  joy  ! 

Under  the  church  of  Federal  Street, 
Under  the  tread  of  its  Sabbath  feet, 
Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 
Lie  the  marvellous  preacher's  bones. 
No  saintly  honors  to  them  are  shown, 
No  sign  nor  miracle  have  they  known  ; 
But  he  who  passes  the  ancient  church 
Stops  in  the  shade  of  its  belfry-porch, 


And  ponders  the  wonderful  life  of  him 
Who  lies  at  rest  in  that  charnel  dim. 
Long  shall  the  traveller  strain  his  eye 
From  the  railroad  car,  as  it  plunges  by, 
And  the   vanishing   town  behind   him 

search 
For  the  slender  spire  of  the  Whitefield 

Church  ; 
And  feel  for  one  moment  the  ghosts  of 

trade, 
And  fashion,    and  folly,    and   pleasure 

laid, 

By  the  thought  of  that  life  of  pure  in 
tent, 

That  voice  of  warning  yet  eloquent, 
Of  one  on  the  errands  of  angels  sent. 
And  if  where  he  labored  the  flood  of  sin 
Like  a  tide  from  the  harbor-bar  sets  in, 
And  over  a  life  of  time  and  sense 
The   church-spires   lift    their   vain   de 
fence, 

As  if  to  scatter  the  bolts  of  God 
With   the   points  of  Calvin's  thunder- 
rod,  — 

Still,  as  the  gem  of  its  civic  crown, 
Precious  beyond  the  world's  renown, 
His  memory  hallows  the  ancient  town  .' 

THE  QUAKER  ALUMNI.™ 

FROM  the  well-springs  of  Hudson,  the 

sea -cliffs  of  Maine, 
Grave  men,  sober  matrons,  you  gather 

again  ; 
And,    with    hearts   warmer    grown    as 

your  heads  grow  more  cool, 
Play   over   the   old  game   of  going  to 

school. 

All  your  strifes  and  vexations,  your 
whims  and  complaints, 

(You  were  not  saints  yourselves,  if  the 
children  of  saints  !) 

All  your  petty  self-seekings  and  rival 
ries  done, 

Round  the  dear  Alma  Mater  your  hearts 
beat  as  one  ! 

How  widely   soe'er  you  have    strayed 

from  the  fold, 
Though  your  "  thee  "  has  grown  "  you," 

and  your  drab  blue  and  gold, 
To   the    old    friendly   speech    and  the 

garb's  sober  form, 
Like  the  heart  of  Argyle  to  the  tartan, 

you  warm. 


THE   QUAKER  ALUMNI. 


255 


But,  the  first  greetings  over,  you  glance 
round  the  hall ; 

Your  hearts  call  the  roll,  but  they  an 
swer  not  all : 

Through  the  turf  green  above  them  the 
dead  cannot  hear ; 

Name  by  name,  in  the  silence,  falls  sad 
as  a  tear  ! 

In  love,  let  us  trust,  they  were  sum 
moned  so  soon 

From  the  morning  of  life,  while  we  toil 
through  its  noon  ; 

They  were  frail  like  ourselves,  they  had 
needs  like  our  own, 

And  they  rest  as  we  rest  in  God's  mercy 
alone. 

Unchanged  by  our  changes  of  spirit  and 

frame, 
Past,  now,  and  henceforward  the  Lord 

is  the  same  ; 
Though  we   sink   in  the   darkness,  his 

arms  break  our  fall, 
And  in  death  as  in  life,  he  is  Father  of 

all! 

"We  are  older :  our  footsteps,  so  light  in 
the  play 

Of  the  far-away  school-time,  move  slower 
to-day  ;  — 

Here  a  beard  touched  with  frost,  there  a 
bald,  shining  crown, 

And  beneath  the  cap's  border  gray  min 
gles  with  brown. 

But  faith  should  be  cheerful,  and  trust 

should  be  glad, 
And  our  follies  and  sins,  not  our  years, 

make  us  sad. 
Should  the    heart   closer    shut   as  the 

bonnet  grows  prim, 
And  the  face  grow  in  length  as  the  hat 

grows  in  brim  ? 

Life  is  brief,  duty  grave  ;  but,  with  rain- 
folded  wings, 

Of  yesterday's  sunshine  the  grateful 
heart  sings  ; 

A-nd  we,  of  all  others,  have  reason  to 

pay 

The  tribute  of  thanks,  and  rejoice  on 
our  way ; 

For  the  counsels  that  turned  from  the 
follies  of  youth  ; 

For  the  beauty  of  patience,  the  white 
ness  of  truth  ; 


For  the  wounds  of  rebuke,    when  love 

tempered  its  edge  ; 
For  the   household's  restraint,  and  the 

discipline's  hedge ; 

For  the  lessons  of  kindness  vouchsafed 

to  the  least 
Of  the  creatures  of  God,  whether  human 

or 


Bringing   hope    to    the    poor,    lending 

strength  to  the  frail, 
In  the  lanes  of  the  city,  the  slave-hut, 

and  jail ; 

For  a  womanhood  higher  and  holier,  by 

all 
Her  knowledge  of  good,  than  was  Ev* 

ere  her  fall,  — 
Whose  task-work  of  duty  moves  lightly 

as  play, 
Serene  as  the  moonlight  and  warm  as 

the  day ; 

And,  yet  more,  for  the  faith  which  em 
braces  the  whole, 

Of  the  creeds  of  the  ages  the  life  and  tlw 
soul, 

Wherein  letter  and  spirit  the  samd 
channel  run, 

And  man  has  not  severed  what  God  has 
made  one  ! 

For  a  sense   of  the   Goodness  revealed 

everywhere, 
As  sunshine  impartial,  and  free  as  th 

air  ; 
For  a  trust  in  humanity,  Heathen  01 

Jew, 
And  a  hope  for  all  darkness  The  Light 

shineth  through. 

Who  scoffs  at  our  birthright  ?  —  the 
words  of  the  seers, 

And  the  songs  of  the  bards  in  the  twi 
light  of  years, 

All  the  foregleams  of  wisdom  in  santon 
and  sage, 

In  prophet  and  priest,  are  our  true 
heritage. 

The  Word  which  the  reason  of  Plato 
discerned ; 

The  truth,  as  whose  symbol  the  Mithra- 
fire  burned  ; 

The  soul  of  the  world  which  the  Stoic 
but  guessed, 

In  the  Light  Universal  the  Quaker  con 
fessed  ! 


256 


POEMS   AND   LYRICS. 


No  honors  of  war  to  our  worthies  be 
long  ; 

Their  plain  stem  of  life  never  flowered 
into  song ; 

But  the  fountains  they  opened  still  gush 
by  the  way, 

And  the  world  for  their  healing  is  better 
to-day. 

He  who  lies  where  the  minster's  groined 
arches  curve  down 

To  the  tomb-crowded  transept  of  Eng 
land's  renown, 

The  glorious  essayist,  by  genius  en 
throned, 

Whose  pen  as  a  sceptre  the  Muses  all 
owned,  — 

Who    through    the    world's  pantheon 

walked  in  his  pride, 
Setting  new  statues  up,    thrusting  old 

ones  aside, 
And  in  fiction  the  pencils  of  history 

dipped, 
To  gild  o'er  or  blacken  each  saint  in  his 

crypt,  - 

How  vainly  he  labored  to  sully  with 

blame 
The  white  bust  of  Penn,  in  the  niche  of 

his  fame  ! 
Self-will    is    self-wounding,    perversity 

blind  : 
On  himself  fell  the  stain  for  the  Quaker 

designed  ! 

For  the  sake  of  his  true-hearted  father 

before  him  ; 
For  the  sake  of  the  dear  Quaker  mother 

that  bore  him ; 
For  the  sake  of  his  gifts,  and  the  works 

that  outlive  him, 
And  his  brave  words  for  freedom,  we 

freely  forgive  him  ! 

There  are  those  who  take  note  that  our 

numbers  are  small,  — 
New  Gibbons  who  write  our  decline  and 

our  fall ; 
But  the  Lord  of  the  seed -field  takes  care 

of  his  own, 
A-nd  the  world  shall  yet  reap  what  our 

sowers  have  sown. 

The  last  of  the  sect  to  his  fathers  may  go, 
Leaving  only  his  coat  for  some  Barnum 
to  show  ; 


But  the   truth  will  outlive  him,   and 

broaden  with  years, 
Till  the  false  dies  away,  and  the  wrong 

disappears. 

Nothing  fails  of  its  end.     Out  of  sight 

sinks  the  stone, 
In  the  deep  sea  of  time,  but  the  circles 

sweep  on, 
Till  the  low-rippled  murmurs  along  the 

shores  run, 
And  the  dark  and  dead  waters  leap  glad 

in  the  sun. 

Meanwhile  shall  we  learn,  in  our  ease. 

to  forget 
To  the  martyrs  of  Truth  and  of  Freedom 

our  debt  ?  — 
Hide  their  words  out  of  sight,  like  tin 

garb  that  they  wore, 
And    for   Barclay's   Apology   offer   onu 

more  ? 

Shall  we  fawn  round  the  priestcraft  that 
glutted  the  shears, 

And  festooned  the  stocks  with  our  grand 
fathers'  ears  ?  — 

Talk  of  Woolman'sunsoundness  ? — count 
Penn  heterodox  ? 

And  take  Cotton  Mather  in  place  of 
George  Fox  ?  — 

Make  our  preachers  war-chaplains  ?  — 
quote  Scripture  to  take 

The  hunted  slave  back,  for  Onesiinus' 
sake  ?  — 

Go  to  burning  church-candles,  and  chant 
ing  in  choir, 

And  on  the  old  meeting-house  stick  up 
a  spire  ? 

No  !  the  old  paths  we  '11  keep  until  bet 
ter  are  shown, 

Credit  good  where  we  find  it,  abroad  or 
our  own  ; 

And  while  "  Lo  here  "  and  "  Lo  there  " 
the  multitude  call, 

Be  true  to  ourselves,  and  do  justice  to 
all. 

The  good  round  about  us  we  need  not 

refuse, 

Nor  talk  of  our  Zion  as  if  we  were  Jews  ; 
But   why  shirk   the   badge  which   our 

fathers  have  worn, 
Or  beg  the  world's  pardon  for  hairing 

been  born  ? 


THE   QUAKER   ALUMNI. 


257 


We  need  not  pray  over  the  Pharisee's 

prayer, 
Nor  claim  that  our  wisdom  is  Benjamin's 

share. 
Truth  to  us  and  to  others  is  equal  and 

one  : 
Shall  we  bottle  the  free  air,  or  hoard  up 

the  sun  ? 

Well  know  we  our  birthright  may  serve 
but  to  show 

flow  the  meanest  of  weeds  in  the  richest 
soil  grow ; 

But  we  need  not  disparage  the  good 
which  we  hold  ; 

Though  the  vessels  be  earthen,  the  treas 
ure  is  gold  ! 

finough  and  too  much  of  the  sect  and 

the  name. 
What  matters  our  label,  so  truth  be  our 

aim  ? 
The  creed  may  be  wrong,  but  the  life 

may  be  true, 
A.nd  hearts  beat  the  same  under  drab 

coats  or  blue. 

60  the  man  be  a  man,  let  him  worship, 

at  will, 
In  Jerusalem's  courts,  or  on  Gerizim's 

hill. 
When  she  makes  up  her  jewels,   what 

cares  yon  good  town 
For  the  Baptist  of  WAYLAND,  the  Quaker 

of  BROWN  ? 

And  this  green,  favored  island,  so  fresh 

and  sea-blown, 
When  she  counts   up  the  worthies  her 

annals  have  known, 
Never  waits  for  the  pitiful  gangers  of 

sect 
To  measure  her  love,  and  mete  out  her 

respect. 

Three  shades  at  this  moment  seem  walk 
ing  her  strand, 

Each  with  head  halo-crowned,  and  with 
palms  in  his  hand,  — 

Wise  Berkeley,  grave  Hopkins,  and,  smil 
ing  serene 

On  prelate  and  puritan,  Channing  is 
seen. 

One  holy  name  bearing,  no  longer  they 

need 
Credentials  of  party,  and  pass-words  of 

creed : 

17 


The  new  song  they  sing  hath  a  threefold 


And  they  own  one  baptism,  one  faith, 
and  one  Lord  ! 

But  the  golden  sands  run  out :  occasions 

like  these 
Glide  swift  into  shadow,  like  sails  on 

the  seas  : 
While  we  sport  with  the  mosses  and 

pebbles  ashore, 
They  lessen  and  fade,  and  we  see  them 

no  more. 

Forgive  me,  dear  friends,  if  my  vagrant 

thoughts  seem 
Like  a  school-boy's  who  idles  and  plays 

with  his  theme. 
Forgive  the  light  measure  whose  change! 

display 
The  sunshine  and  rain  of  our  brief  April 

day. 

There  are  moments  in  life  when  the  lip. 

and  the  eye 
Try  the  question  of  whether  to  smile  or 

to  cry  ; 
And  scenes  and  reunions  that  prompt 

like  our  own 
The  tender  in  feeling,   the  playful  in 

tone. 

I,  who  never  sat  down  with  the  boys  and 
the  girls 

At  the  feet  of  your  Slocurns,  and  Cart- 
lands,  and  Earles,  — 

By  courtesy  only  permitted  to  lay 

On  your  festival's  altar  my  poor  gift,  t<r 
day,  — 

I  would  joy  in  your  joy  :  let  me  have  a 

friend's  part 
In  the  warmth  of  your  welcome  of  hai/d 

and  of  heart,  — 
On  your  play-ground  of  boyhood  unben  K 

the  brow's  care, 
And  shift  the  old  burdens  our  shoulders 

must  bear. 

Long  live  the  good  School !  giving  out 

year  by  year 
Eecruits  to  true  manhood  and  womau- 

hood  dear : 
Brave  boys,  modest  maidens,  in  beairty 

sent  forth, 
The  living  epistles  and  proof  of  its  worth  I 


258 


POEMS   AND   LYRICS. 


In  and  ott  let  the  young  life  as  steadily 
flow 

As  in  broad  Narragansett  the  tides  come 
and  go  ; 

And  its  sons  and  its  daughters  in  prairie 
and  town 

Remember  its  honor,  and  guard  its  re 
nown. 

Not  vainly  the  gift  of  its  founder  was 

made  ; 
Not  prayerless  the  stones  of  its  corner 

were  laid  : 
The  blessing  of  Him  whom  in  secret  they 

sought 
Has  owned  the  good  work  which  the 

fathers  have  wrought. 

To  Him  be  the  glory  forever  !  —  "We  bear 
To  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  our  wheat 

with  the  tare. 
What  we  lack  in  our  work  may  He  find 

in  our  will, 
And  winnow  in  mercy  our  good  from  the 

ill! 


BROWN   OF   OSSAWATOMIE. 

JOHN  BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE  spake 
on  his  dying  day  : 

"  I  will  not  have  to  shrive  my  soul  a 
priest  in  Slavery's  pay. 

But  let  some  poor  slave-mother  whom  I 
have  striven  to  free, 

With  her  children,  from  the  gallows- 
stair  put  up  a  prayer  for  me  !  " 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie,  they  led 

him  out  to  die  ; 
And  lo  !    a  poor  slave-mother  with  her 

little  child  pressed  nigh. 
Then  the  bold,  blue  eye  grew  tender, 

and  the  old  harsh  face  grew  mild, 
As  he  stooped  between  the  jeering  ranks 

and  kissed  the  negro's  child  ! 

The  shadows  of  his  stormy  life  that  mo 
ment  fell  apart ; 

And  they  who  blamed  the  bloody  hand 
forgave  the  loving  heart. 

That  kiss  from  all  its  guilty  means  re 
deemed  the  good  intent, 

And  round  the  grisly  fighter's  hair  the 
martyr's  aureole  bent ! 


Perish  with  him   the   folly  that   seeks 

through  evil  good  ! 
Long  live  the  generous  purpose  unstained 

with  human  blood  ! 
Not  the  raid  of  midnight  terror,  but  the 

thought  which  underlies  ; 
Not  the  borderer's  pride  of  daring,  but 

the  Christian's  sacrifice. 

Nevermore   may  yon   Blue   Ridges  the 

Northern  rifle  hear, 
Nor  see  the  light  of  blazing  homes  flash 

on  the  negro's  spear. 
But   let    the   free-winged   angel   Truth 

their  guarded  passes  scale, 
To  teach  that  right  is  more  than  might, 

and  justice  more  than  mail  ! 

So  vainly  shall  Virginia  set  her  battle 

in  array  ; 
In  vain  her  trampling  squadrons  knead 

the  winter  snow  with  clay. 
She  may  strike  the  pouncing  eagle,  but 

she  dares  not  harm  the  dove  ; 
And  every  gate  she  bars  to  Hate  shall 

open  wide  to  Love  ! 


FROM   PERUGIA. 

"  The  thing  which  has  the  most  dissevered  the 
people  from  the  Pope,  —  the  -unforgivable  thing, 
—  the  breaking  point  between  him  and  them,  — 
has  been  the  encouragement  and  promotion  he 
gave  to  the  officer  under  whom  were  executed 
the  slaughters  of  Perugia.  That  made  the  break 
ing  point  in  many  honest  hearts  that  had  clung 
to  him  before."  —  Harriet  Seedier  Stoiue^s  "Let 
ters  from  Italy ." 

THE  tall,  sallow  guardsmen  their  horse 
tails  have  spread, 

Flaming  out  in  their  violet,  yellow,  and 
red  ; 

And  behind  go  the  lackeys  in  crimson 
and  buff, 

And  the  chamberlains  gorgeous  in  velvet 
and  ruff ; 

Next,  in  red-legged  pomp,  come  the 
cardinals  forth, 

Each  a  lord  of  the  church  and  a  prince 
of  the  earth. 

What 's  this  squeak  of  the  fife,  and  this 
batter  of  drum  ? 

Lo  !  the  Swiss  of  the  Church  from  Pe 
rugia  come,  — 

The  militant  angels,  whose  sabres  drive 
home 

To  the  hearts  of  the  malcontents,  cursed 
and  abhorred, 


FROM  PERUGIA. 


259 


The  good  Father's  missives,  and  "  Thus 

saith  the  Lord  !  " 
And  lend  to  his  logic  the  point  of  the 

sword  ! 

0  maids  of  Etruria,  gazing  forlorn 

O'er  dark  Thrasymenus,  dishevelled  and 
torn  ! 

0  fathers,  who  pluck  at  your  gray  beards 
for  shame  ! 

O  mothers,  struck  dumb  by  a  woe  with 
out  name  ! 

Well  ye  know  how  the  Holy  Church 
hireling  behaves, 

And  his  tender  compassion  of  prisons 
and  graves  ! 

There  they  stand,   the  hired  stabbers, 

the  blood-stains  yet  fresh, 
That  splashed  like  red  wine  from  the 

vintage  of  flesh,  — 
Grim  instruments,   careless   as  pincers 

and  rack 
How   the    joints    tear  apart,    and    the 

strained  sinews  crack  ; 
But  the  hate  that  glares  on  them  is 

sharp  as  their  swords, 
And  the  sneer  and  the  scowl  print  the 

air  with  fierce  words  ! 

Off  with  hats,  down  with  knees,  shout 
your  vivas  like  mad  ! 

Here  's  the  Pope  in  his  holiday  right 
eousness  clad, 

From  shorn  crown  to  toe-nail,  kiss-worn 
to  the  quick, 

Of  sainthood  in  purple  the  pattern  and 
pick, 

"Who  the  role  of  the  priest  and  the  sol 
dier  unites, 

And,  praying  like  Aaron,  like  Joshua 
fights ! 

Is  this  Pio  Nono  the  gracious,  for  whom 
We  sang  our  hosannas  and  lighted  all 

Rome  ; 
With  whose  advent  we  dreamed  the  new 

era  began 
When  the  priest  should  be  human,  the 

monk  be  a  man  ? 
Ah,  the  wolf  's  with  the  sheep,  and  the 

fox  with  the  fowl, 
When  freedom  we  trust  to  the  crozier 

and  cowl ! 

Stand  aside,  men  of  Rome  !  Here  's  a 
hangman-faced  Swiss  — 


(A    blessing  for    him   surely   can't   go 

amiss)  — 
Would  kneel  down  the  sanctified  slipper 

to  kiss. 
Short   shrift  will   suffice  him,  —  he  '3 

blest  beyond  doubt ; 
But  there  's  blood  on  his  hands  which 

would  scarcely  wash  out, 
Though  Peter  himself  held  the  baptismal 

spout ! 

Make  way  for  the  next !  Here  's  anothei 
sweet  son  ! 

What 's  this  mastiff-jawed  rascal  in  epau 
lets  done  ? 

He  did,  whispers  rumor,  (its  truth  God 
forbid  !) 

At  Perugia  what  Herod  at  Bethlehem  did. 

And  the  mothers  ?  —  Don't  name  them  ! 
—  these  humors  of  war 

They  who  keep  him  in  service  must  par 
don  him  for. 

Hist  !  here  's  the  arch-knave  in  a  car 
dinal's  hat, 

With  the  heart  of  a  wolf,  and  the  stealth 
of  a  cat 

(As  if  Judas  and  Herod  together  were 
rolled), 

Who  keeps,  all  as  one,  the  Pope's  con 
science  and  gold, 

Mounts  guard  on  the  altar,  and  pilfers 
from  thence, 

And  flatters  St.  Peter  while  stealing  his 
pence  ! 

Who  doubts  Antonelli  ?     Have  miracles 

ceased 
When  robbers  say  mass,  and  Barabbas  is 

priest  ? 
When  the  Church  eats  and  drinks,  at  its 

mystical  board, 
The  true  flesh  and  blood  carved  and 

shed  by  its  sword, 
When  its  martyr,  unsinged,  claps  the 

crown  on  his  head, 
And  roasts,  as  his  proxy,  his  neighboi 

instead  ! 

There  !  the  bells  jow  and  jangle  the 
same  blessed  way 

That  they  did  when  they  rang  for  Bar 
tholomew's  day. 

Hark  !  the  tallow-faced  monsters,  nor 
women  nor  boys, 

Vex  the  air  with  a  shrill,  sexless  horror 
of  noise. 


260 


POEMS  AND   LYRICS. 


Te  Deum  laudamus  /—  All  round  with 
out  stint 

The  incense-pot  swings  with  a  taint  of 
blood  in 't  ! 

And  now  for  the  blessing  !     Of  little 

account, 
You  know,  is  the  old  one  they  heard  on 

the  Mount. 
Its  giver  was  landless,  his  raiment  was 

poor, 

No  jewelled  tiara  his  fishermen  wore  ; 
No   incense,  no  lackeys,  no  riches,  no 

home, 
No  Swiss  guards  !  —  We   order  things 

better  at  Rome. 

So  bless  us  the  strong  hand,  and  curse 

us  the  weak ; 
Let  Austria's  vulture  have  food  for  her 

beak; 
Let    the    wolf-whelp    of    Naples    play 

Bomba  again, 
With    his    death -cap    of    silence,    and 

halter,  and  chain  ; 
Put  reason,  and  justice,  and  truth  under 

ban  ; 
For  the  sin  unforgiven  is  freedom  for 

man  ! 


FOR  AN  AUTUMN  FESTIVAL. 

THE  Persian's  flowery  gifts,  the  shrine 
Of  fruitful  Ceres,  charm  no  more  ; 

The  woven  wreaths  of  oak  and  pine 
Are  dust  along  the  Isthmian  shore. 

But  beauty  hath  its  homage  still, 
And  nature  holds  us  still  in  debt  ; 

And  woman's  grace  and  household  skill, 
And    manhood's    toil,    are    honored 
yet. 

And  we,  to-day,  amidst  our  flowers 
And  fruits,  have  come  to  own  again 

The  blessings  of  the  summer  hours, 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain  ; 


To  see  our  Father's  hand  once  more 
Reverse  for  us  the  plenteous  horn 

Of  autumn,  filled  and  running  o'er 
With   fruit,  and   flower,  and   golden 
corn  ! 

Once  more  the  liberal  year  laughs  out 
O'er  richer  stores  than  gems  or  gold  ; 

Once  more  with  harvest-song  and  shout 
Is  Nature's  bloodless  triumph  told.    , 

Our  common  mother  rests  and  sings, 
Like     Ruth,     among     her    garnered 

sheaves  ; 
Her  lap  is  full  of  goodly  things, 

Her    brow    is    bright    with   autumn 
leaves. 

0  favors  every  year  made  new  ! 
^  0  gifts  with  rain  and  sunshine  sent  ! 
The  bounty  overruns  our  due, 

The  fulness  shames  our  discontent. 

We  shut  our  eyes,  the  flowers  bloom  on  : 
We  murmur,  but  the  corn-ears  fill ; 

We  choose  the  shadow,  but  the  sun 
That  casts  it  shines  behind  us  still. 

God  gives  us  with  our  rugged  soil 
The  power  to  make  it  Eden-fair, 

And  richer  fruits  to  crown  our  toil 
Than  summer-wedded  islands  bear. 

Who  murmurs  at  his  lot  to-day  ? 

Who  scorns  his  native  fruit  and  bloom? 
Or  sighs  for  dainties  far  away, 

Beside  the  bounteous  board  of  home  ? 

Thank  Heaven,  instead,  that  Freedom's 
arm 

Can  change  a  rocky  soil  to  gold,  — 
That  brave  and  generous  lives  can  warm 

A  clime  with  northern  ices  cold. 

And   let   these    altars,    wreathed    with 
flowers 

And  piled  with  fruits,  awake  again 
Thanksgivings  for  the  golden  hours, 

The  early  and  the  latter  rain  I 


A  WORD   FOR  THE   HOUR, 


261 


IN    WAR    TIME. 


FO    SAMUEL    E.   SEWALL 

AND 

HARRIET  W.    SEWALL, 

OF   MELROSE, 

OLOK  ISCANUS  queries:    "Why  should 

we 

Vex  at  the  land's  ridiculous  miserie  ? " 
So  on  his  Usk  banks,  in  the  blood-red 

dawn 
Of  England's   civil  strife,  did  careless 

Vaughan 
Bemock  his  times.     0  friends  of  many 

years  ! 
Though  faith  and  trust    are    stronger 

than  our  fears, 

And  the  signs  promise  peace  with  liberty, 
Not  thus  we  trifle   with  our  country's 

tears 

And  sweat  of  agony.     The  future's  gain 
Is  certain  as  God's  truth ;  but,  mean 
while,  pain 
Is  bitter  and  tears  are  salt  :  our  voices 

take 

A  sober  tone  ;  our  very  household  songs 
Are   heavy  with    a   nation's  griefs  arid 

wrongs  ; 
And  innocent  mirth  is  chastened  for  the 

sake 
Of  the  brave  hearts  that  nevermore  shall 

beat, 
The  eyes  that  smile  no  more,  the  unre- 

turning  feet  ! 


THY  WILL   BE  DONE. 

WE  see  not,  know  not  ;  all  our  way 
Is  night,  —  with  Thee  alone  is  day  : 
From  out  the  torrent's  troubled  drift, 
Above  the  storm  our  prayers  we  lift, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

The  flesh  may  fail,  the  heart  may  faint, 
But  who  are  we  to  make  complaint, 
Or  dare  to  plead,  in  times  like  these, 
The  weakness  of  our  love  of  ease  ? 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 


We  take  with  solemn  thankfulness 
Our  burden  up,  nor  ask  it  less, 
And  count  it  joy  that  even  we 
May  suffer,  serve,  or  wait  for  Thee, 
Whose  will  be  done  ! 

Though  dim  as  yet  in  tint  and  line, 
We  trace  Thy  picture's  wise  design, 
And  thank  Thee  that  our  age  supplies 
Its  dark  relief  of  sacrifice. 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

And  if,  in  our  unworthiness, 
Thy  sacrificial  wine  we  press  ; 
If  from  Thy  ordeal's  heated  bars 
Our  feet  are  seamed  with  crimson  scars, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

If,  for  the  age  to  come,  this  hour 
Of  trial  hath  vicarious  power, 
And,  blest  by  Thee,  our  present  pain, 
Be  Liberty's  eternal  gain, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

Strike,  Thou  the  Master,  we  Thy  key?,, 
The  anthem  of  the  destinies  ! 
The  minor  of  Thy  loftier  s  train, 
Our  hearts  shall  breathe  the  old  refrain, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 


A  WORD  FOR  THE  HOUR. 
THE  firmament  breaks  up.     In   Wack 


Light  after  light  goes  out.     One  evil 

star, 
Luridly  glaring  through  the  smoke  of 

war, 

As  in  the  dream  of  the  Apocalypse, 
Drags  others  down.     Let  us  not  weakly 

weep 
Nor  rashly  threaten.     Give  us  grace  to 

keep 
Our    faith     and    patience ;     wherefore 

should  we  leap 

On  one  hand  into  fratricidal  fight, 
Or,  on  the  other,  yield  eternal  right, 
Frame  lies  of  law,  and  good  and  ill  coj>« 

found  ? 


262 


IN   WAR   TIME. 


What  fear  we  ?     Safe  on  freedom's  van 
tage-ground 

Our  feet  are  planted  :  let  us  there  remain 
In  unrevengeful  calm,  no  means  untried 
Which  truth  can  sanction,  no  just  claim 

denied, 

The  sad  spectators  of  a  suicide  ! 
They  break  the  links  of  Union  :   shall 

we  light 

The  fires  of  hell  to  weld  anew  the  chain 
On  that  red  anvil  where  each  blow  is 

pain  ? 

Draw  we  not  even  now  a  freer  breath, 
As  from   our  shoulders  falls  a  load  of 

death 
Loathsome  as  that  the  Tuscan's  victim 

bore 
When  keen  with  life  to  a  dead  horror 

bound  ? 
Why  take   we  up  the   accursed  thing 

again? 
Pity,  forgive,  but  urge  them  back  no 

more 

Who,  drunk   with   passion,  flaunt  dis 
union's  rag 

With  its  vile  reptile-blazon.  Let  us  press 
The  golden  cluster  on  our  brave  old  flag 
In  closer  union,  and,  if  numbering  less, 
Brighter  shall  shine  the  stars  which  still 

remain. 
IQthlst  mo.,  1861. 


"EIN   FESTE    BURG    1ST  UNSEK 
GOTT." 

(LUTHER'S  HYMN.) 

WE  wait  beneath  the  furnace-blast 

The  pangs  of  transformation  ; 
Not  painlessly  doth  God  recast 
And  mould  anew  the  nation. 
Hot  burns  the  fire 
Where  wrongs  expire  ; 
Nor  spares  the  hand 
That  from  the  land 
Uproots  the  ancient  evil. 

The  hand-breadth  cloud  the  sages  feared 

Its  bloody  rain  is  dropping  ; 
The  poison  plant  the  fathers  spared 
All  else  is  overtopping. 
East,  West,  South,  North, 
It  curses  the  earth  ; 
All  justice  dies, 
And  fraud  and  lies 
Lire  only  in  its  shadow. 


What  gives  the  wheat-field  blades  of 

steel ? 

What  points  the  rebel  cannon  ? 
What  sets  the  roaring  rabble's  heel 
On  the  old  star-spangled  pennon  ? 
What  breaks  the  oath 
Of  the  men  o'  the  South  ? 
What  whets  the  knife 
For  the  Union's  life  ?  — 
Hark  to  the  answer  :  Slavery  ! 

Then  waste  no  blows  on  lesser  foes 

In  strife  unworthy  freemen. 
God  lifts  to-day  the  veil,  and  shows 
The  features  of  the  demon  ! 
0  North  and  South, 
Its  victims  both, 
Can  ye  not  cry, 
' '  Let  slavery  die  !  " 
And  union  find  in  freedom  ? 


What  though  the  cast-out  spirit  tear 

The  nation  in  his  going  ? 
We   who   have   shared   the  guilt   must 

share 

The  pang  of  his  o'erthrowing  ! 
Whate'er  the  loss, 
Whate'er  the  cross, 
Shall  they  complain 
Of  present  pain 
Who  trust  in  God's  hereafter  ? 


For  who  that  leans  on  His  right  arm 

Was  ever  yet  forsaken  ? 
What  righteous  cause  can  suffer  harm 
If  He  its  part  has  taken  ? 
Though  wild  and  loud, 
And  dark  the  cloud, 
Behind  its  folds 
His  hand  upholds 
The  calm  sky  of  to-morrow  ! 

Above  the  maddening  cry  for  blood, 

Above  the  wild  war-drumming, 
Let   Freedom's    voice    be    heard,    with 

good 

The  evil  overcoming. 
Give  prayer  and  purse 
To  stay  the  Curse 
Whose  wrong  we  share, 
Whose  shame  we  bear, 
Whose  end  shall  gladden  Heaven  I 

In  vain  the  bells  of  war  shall  ring 
Of  triumphs  and  revenges, 


THE  WATCHERS. 


263 


While  still  is  spared  the  evil  thing 
That  severs  and  estranges. 

But  blest  the  ear 

That  yet  shall  hear 

The  jubilant  bell 

That  rings  the  knell 
Of  Slavery  forever  ! 

Then  let  the  selfish  lip  be  dumb, 

And  hushed  the  breath  of  sighing  ; 
Before  the  joy  of  peace  must  come 
The  pains  of  purifying. 
God  give  us  grace 
Each  in  his  place 
To  bear  his  lot, 
And,  murmuring  not, 
Endure  and  wait  and  labor  ! 


TO   JOHN   C.    FREMONT. 


error,  Fremont,  simply  was  to  act 
A  brave  man's  part,  without  the  states 

man's  tact, 
And,    taking    counsel  but  of  common 

sense, 

To  strike  at  cause  as  well  as  consequence. 
0,  never  yet  since  Roland  wound  his 

horn 

At  Roncesvalles,  has  a  blast  been  blown 
Far-heard,  wide-echoed,  startling  as 

thine  own, 
Heard  from  the  van  of  freedom's  hope 

forlorn  ! 

It  had  been  safer,  doubtless,  for  the  time, 
To  flatter  treason,  and  avoid  offence 
To  that  Dark  Power  whose  underlying 

crime 

Heaves  upward  its  perpetual  turbulence. 
But  if  thine  be  the  fate  of  all  who  break 
The  ground  for  truth's  seed,  or  forerun 

their  years 
Till  lost  in  distance,  or  with  stout  hearts 

make 
A  lane  for  freedom  through  the  level 

spears, 
Still  take  thou  courage  !   God  has  spoken 

through  thee, 

Irrevocable,  the  mighty  words,  Be  free  ! 
The  land  shakes  with  them,  and  the 

slave's  dull  ear 
Turns  from  the  rice-swamp  stealthily  to 

hear. 
Who  would  recall  them  now  must  first 

arrest 
The  winds  that  blow  down  from  the  free 

Northwest, 


Ruffling  the  Gulf ;  or  like  a  scroll  roll 

back 

The  Mississippi  to  its  upper  springs. 
Such   words  fulfil   their   prophecy,  and 

lack 
But  the  full  time  to  harden  into  things, 


THE  WATCHERS. 

BESIDE  a  stricken  field  I  stood  ; 

On  the  torn  turf,  on  grass  and  woods 

Hung  heavily  the  dew  of  blood. 

Still   in    their  fresh    mounds  lay   the 

slain, 

But  all  the  air  was  quick  with  pain 
And  gusty  sighs  and  tearful  rain. 

Two  angels,  each  with  drooping  head 
And  folded  wings  and  noiseless  tread, 
Watched  by  that  valley  of  the  dead. 

The  one,  with  forehead  saintly  bland 
And  lips  of  blessing,  not  command, 
Leaned,  weeping,  on  her  olive  wand. 

The  other's  brows  were  scarred  and  knit, 
His  restless  eyes  were  watch-fires  lit, 
His  hands  for  battle-gauntlets  fit. 

"  How  long  !  "  —  I  knew  the  voice  of 

Peace,  — 

"  Is  there  no  respite  ?  —  no  release  ?  — 
When  shall  the  hopeless  quarrel  cease  ? 

' '  0  Lord,  how  long  !  —  One  human  soul 
Is  more  than  any  parchment  scroll, 
Or  any  flag  thy  winds  unroll. 

' '  What  price  was   Ellsworth's,    young 

and  brave  ? 

How  weigh  the  gift  that  Lyon  gave, 
Or  count  the  cost  of  Winthrop's  grave  ? 

"  0  brother  !  if  thine  eye  can  see, 
Tell  how  and  when  the  end  shall  be, 
What  hope  remains  for  thee  and  me." 

Then  Freedom  sternly  said  :  "I  shun 
No  strife  nor  pang  beneath  the  sun, 
When  human   rights    are    staked   and 
won. 

"  I  knelt  with  Ziska's  hunted  flock, 
I  watched  in  Toussaint's  cell  of  rock, 
I  walked  with  Sidney  to  the  block. 


264 


IN  WAR  TIME. 


"  The  moor  of  Marston  felt  my  tread, 
Through  Jersey  snows  the  march  I  led, 
My  voice  Magenta's  charges  sped. 

"But  now,  through  weary  day  and  night, 
I  watch  a  vague  and  aimless  fight 
For  leave  to  strike  one  blow  aright. 

"  On  either  side  my  foe  they  own  : 
One  guards   through   love   his   ghastly 

throne, 
And    one    through    fear    to    reverence 

grown. 

"  Why   wait   we    longer,    mocked,    be 
trayed, 

By  open  foes,  or  those  afraid 
To  speed  thy  coming  through  my  aid? 

"  Why  watch  to  see  who  win  or  fall  ?  — 

I  shake  the  dust  against  them  all, 

I  leave  them  to  their  senseless  brawl." 

"Nay,"    Peace  implored:  "yet  longer 

wait ; 

The  doom  is  near,  the  stake  is  great  : 
God  knoweth  if  it  be  too  late. 

"  Still  wait  and  watch  ;  the  way  prepare 
Where  I  with  folded  wings  of  prayer 
May  follow,  weaponless  and  bare." 

"Too  late  !"  the   stern,    sad  voice  re 
plied, 

"  Too  late  !  "  its  mournful  echo  sighed, 
In  low  lament  the  answer  died. 

A  rustling  as  of  wings  in  flight, 
An  upward  gleam  of  lessening  white, 
So  passed  the  vision,  sound  and  sight. 

But  round  me,  like  a  silver  bell 
Rung  down  the  listening  sky  to  tell 
Of  holy  help,  a  sweet  voice  fell. 

"Still  hope  and  trust,"  it  sang  ;  "the 

rod 

Must  fall,  the  wine-press  must  be  trod, 
But  all  is  possible  with  God  !  " 


TO  ENGLISHMEN. 

You  flung  your  taunt  across  the  wave  ; 

We  bore  it  as  became  us, 
Well  knowing  that  the  fettered  slave 
Left  friendly  lips  no  option  save 

To  pity  or  to  blame  us. 


You  scoffed  our  plea.     "  Mere  lack  of 
will, 

Not  lack  of  power,"  you  told  us  : 
We  showed  our  free-state  records  ;  still 
You  mocked,  confounding  good  and  ill, 

Slave-haters  and  slaveholders. 

We  struck  at  Slavery  ;  to  the  verge 
Of  power  and  means  we  checked  it ; 

Lo  !  —  presto,    change  !   its  claims  you 
urge, 

Send  greetings  to  it  o'er  the  surge, 
And  comfort  and  protect  it. 

But  yesterday  you  scarce  could  shake, 

In  slave-abhorring  rigor, 
Our  Northern  palms  for  conscience'  sake : 
To-day  you  clasp  the  hands  that  ache 

With  "walloping  the  nigger  !  " 71 

0  Englishmen  !  —  in  hope  and  creed, 
In  blood  and  tongue  our  brothers  ! 

We  too  are  heirs  of  Runnymede  ; 

And  Shakespeare's  fame  and  Cromwell's 

deed 
Are  not  alone  our  mother's. 

"Thicker  than  water,"  in  one  rill 

Through  centuries  of  story 
Our  Saxon  blood  has  flowed,  and  still 
We  share  with  you  its  good  and  ill, 

The  shadow  and  the  glory. 

Joint  heirs  and  kinfolk,  leagues  of  wav< 

Nor  length  of  years  can  part  us  : 
Your  right  is  ours  to  shrine  and  grave, 
The  common  freehold  of  the  brave, 
The  gift  of  saints  and  martyrs. 

Our  very  sins  and  follies  teach 

Our  kindred  frail  and  human  : 
We  carp  at  faults  with  bitter  speech, 
The  while,  for  one  unshared  by  each, 
We  have  a  score  in  common. 

We  bowed  the  heart,  if  not  the  knee, 
To  England's  Queen,  God  bless  her  ! 

We  praised  you  when  your  slaves  went 
free: 

We  seek  to  unchain  ours.     Will  ye 
Join  hands  with  the  oppressor  ? 

And  is  it  Christian  England  cheers 

The  bruiser,  not  the  bruised  ? 
And  must  she  run,  despite  the  tears 
And  prayers  of  eighteen  hundred  years, 
Amuck  in  Slavery's  crusade  ? 


THE   BATTLE   AUTUMN    OF   1862. 


265 


0  black  disgrace  !  0  shame  and  loss 
Too  deep  for  tongue  to  phrase  on  ! 
Tear  from  your  flag  its  holy  cross, 
And  in  your  van  of  battle  toss 
The  pirate's  skull-bone  blazon  ! 


ASTR.EA  AT   THE   CAPITOL. 

ABOLITION     OF    SLAVERY     IN    THE     DIS 
TRICT   OF   COLUMBIA,    1862. 

WHEN  first  I  saw  our  banner  wave 
Above  the  nation's  council-hall, 
I  heard  beneath  its  marble  wall 

The  clanking  fetters  of  the  slave  ! 

In  the  foul  market-place  I  stood, 
And  saw  the  Christian  mother  sold, 
And  childhood  with  its  locks  of  gold, 

Blue-eyed  and  fair  with  Saxon  blood. 

I  shut  my  eyes,  I  held  my  breath, 
And,  smothering  down  the  wrath  and 

shame 

That  set  my  Northern  blood  aflame, 
Stood    silent,  —  where    to    speak    was 
death. 

Beside  me  gloomed  the  prison-cell 
Where  wasted  one  in  slow  decline 
For  uttering  simple  words  of  mine, 

And  loving  freedom  all  too  well. 

The  flag  that  floated  from  the  dome 
Flapped  menace  in  the  morning  air ; 
I  stood  a  perilled  stranger  where 

The  human  broker  made  his  home. 

For  crime  was  virtue  :  Gown  and  Sword 
And  Law  their  threefold  sanction  gave, 
And  to  the  quarry  of  the  slave 

Went  hawking  with  our  symbol-bird. 

On  the  oppressor's  side  was  power  ; 
And  yet  1  knew  that  every  wrong, 
However  old,  however  strong, 

But  waited  God's  avenging  hour. 

I  knew  that  truth  would  crush  the  lie, — 
Somehow,  some  time,  the  end  would 

be; 
Yet  scarcely  dared  I  hope  to  see 

The  triumph  with  my  mortal  eye. 

But  now  I  see  it  !     In  the  sun 

A  free  flag  floats  from  yonder  dome, 


And  at  the  nation's  hearth  and  home 
The  justice  long  delayed  is  done. 

Not  as  we  hoped,  in  calm  of  prayer, 
The  message  of  deliverance  comes, 
But  heralded  by  roll  of  drums 

On  waves  of  battle-troubled  air  !  — 

Midst  sounds  that  madden  and  appall, 
The  song  that  Bethlehem's  shepherds 

knew  ! 
The  harp  of  David  melting  through 

The  demon-agonies  of  Saul ! 

Not  as  we  hoped  ;  —  but  what  are  we  ? 
Above  our  broken  dreams  and  plans 
God  lays,  with  wiser  hand  than  man's, 

The  corner-stones  of  liberty. 

I  cavil  not  with  Him  :  the  voice 
That  freedom's  blessed  gospel  tells 
Is  sweet  to  me  as  silver  bells, 

Rejoicing  !  —  yea,  I  will  rejoice  ! 

Dear  friends  still  toiling  in  the  sun,  — 
Ye  dearer  ones  who,  gone  before, 
Are  watching  from  the  eternal  shore 

The  slow  work  by  your  hands  begun,  — 

Rejoice  with  me  !     The  chastening  rod 
Blossoms  with  love  ;  the  furnace  heat 
Grows  cool  beneath  His  blessed  feet 

Whose  form  is  as  the  Son  of  God  ! 

Rejoice  !     Our  Marah's  bitter  springs 
Are  sweetened  ;  on  our  ground  of  grief 
Rise  day  by  day  in  strong  relief 

The  prophecies  of  better  things. 

Rejoice  in  hope  !     The  day  and  night 
Are  one  with  God,  and  one  with  them 
Who  see  by  faith  the  cloudy  hem 

Of  Judgment  fringed  with  Mercy's  light ! 


THE  BATTLE    AUTUMN  OF  1862. 

THE  flags  of  war  like  storm-birds  fly, 
The  charging  trumpets  blow  ; 

Yet  rolls  no  thunder  in  the  sky, 
No  earthquake  strives  below- 

And,  calm  and  patient,  Nature  keeps 

Her  ancient  promise  well, 
Though  o'er  her  bloom  and  greenness 
sweeps 

The  battle's  breath  of  hell. 


266 


IN  WAR   TIME. 


And  still  she  walks  in  golden  hours 
Through  harvest-happy  farms, 

And  still  she  wears  her  fruits  and  flowers 
Like  jewels  on  her  arms. 

.What  mean  the  gladness  of  the  plain, 

This  joy  of  eve  and  morn, 
The  mirth  that  shakes  the  beard  of  grain 

And  yellow  locks  of  corn  ? 

Ah  !  eyes  may  well  be  full  of  tears, 
And  hearts  with  hate  are  hot ; 

But  even-paced  come  round  the  years, 
And  Nature  changes  not. 

She  meets  with  smiles  our  bitter  grief, 
With  songs  our  groans  of  pain  ; 

She  mocks  with  tint  of  flower  and  leaf 
The  war-field's  crimson  stain. 

Still,  in  the  cannon's  pause,  we  hear 
Her  sweet  thanksgiving-psalm  ; 

Too  near  to  God  for  doubt  or  fear, 
She  shares  the  eternal  calm. 

She  knows  the  seed  lies  safe  below 
The  fires  that  blast  and  burn  ; 

For  all  the  tears  of  blood  we  sow 
She  waits  the  rich  return. 

She  sees  with  clearer  eye  than  ours 
The  good  of  suffering  born,  — 

The  hearts  that  blossom  like  her  flowers, 
And  ripen  like  her  corn. 

O,  give  to  us,  in  times  like  these, 

The  vision  of  her  eyes  ; 
And  make  her  fields  and  fruited  trees 

Our  golden  prophecies  ! 

0,  give  to  us  her  finer  ear  ! 

Above  this  stormy  din, 
We  too  would  hear  the  bells  of  cheer 

King  peace  and  freedom  in. 


MITHRIDATES  AT  CHIOS.*2 

KNOW'ST  thou,  0  slave-cursed  land  ! 
flow,  when  the  Chian' s  cup  of  guilt 
Was  full  to  overflow,  there  came 
God's  justice  in  the  sword  of  flame 
That,  red  with  slaughter  to  its  hilt, 
Blazed  in  the  Cappadocian  victor's  hand  ? 

The  heavens  are  still  and  far  ; 
But,  not  unheard  of  awful  Jove, 


The  sighing  of  the  island  slave 
Was    answered,    when   the    JEgean 

wave 

The  keels  of  Mithridates  clove, 
And  the  vines  shrivelled  in  the  breath  of 
war. 

"  Robbers  of  Chios  !  hark," 
The  victor  cried,    "  to   Heaven's  de 
cree  ! 
Pluck  your  last   cluster   from  the 

vine, 

Drain  your  last  cup  of  Chian  wine  . 
Slaves  of  your  slaves,  your  doom  shall 

be, 

In    Colchian   mines   by   Phasis   rolling 
dark." 

Then  rose  the  long  lament 
From  the  hoar  sea-god's  dusky  caves : 
The    priestess   rent    her   hair    and 

cried, 

"Woe  !  woe  !     The  gods  are  sleep 
less-eyed  ! " 
And,  chained  and  scourged,  the  slaves 

of  slaves, 
The  lords  of  Chios  into  exile  went. 

"  The  gods  at  last  pay  well," 
So  Hellas  sang  her  taunting  song, 
"  The  fisher  in  his  net  is  caught, 
The  Chian  hath  his  master  bought"  ; 
And  isle  from  isle,  with  laughter  long, 
Took  up  and  sped  the  mocking  parable. 

Once  more  the  slow,  dumb  years 
Bring  their  avenging  cycle  round, 
And,  more  than  Hellas  taught  of  old, 
Our  wiser  lesson  shall  be  told, 
Of  slaves  uprising,  freedom-crowned, 
To  break,    not  wield,    the  scourge  wet 
with  their  blood  and  tears. 


THE  PROCLAMATION. 

SAINT  PATRICK,  slave  to  Milcho  of  the 

herds 
Of    Ballymena,     wakened    with    these 

words  : 

"  Arise,  and  flee 
Out  from  the  land  of  bondage,  and  be 

free  ! " 

Glad  as  a  soul  in  pain,  who  hears  from 

heaven 
The  angels  singing  of  his  sins  forgiven, 


ANNIVERSARY   POEM. 


267 


And,  wondering,  sees 
His  prison  opening  to  their  golden  keys, 

He  rose   a  man  who  laid  him  down  a 

slave, 
Shook  from  his  locks  the  ashes  of  the 

grave, 

And  outward  trod 
Into  the  glorious  liberty  of  God. 

He  cast  the  symbols  of  his  shame  away  ; 
And,  passing  where  the  sleeping  Milcho 

lay, 

Though  back  and  limb 
Smarted  with  wrong,  he  prayed,  "  God 

pardon  him  ! " 

So  went  he  forth  ;  but  in  God's  time  he 

came 
To  light  on  Uilline's  hills  a  holy  flame  ; 

And,  dying,  gave 
The  land   a   saint  that  lost  him  as  a 

slave. 

0  dark,  sad  millions,  patiently  and  dumb 
Waiting  for  God,  your  hour,  at  last,  has 

come, 

And  freedom's  song 
Breaks  the  long  silence  of  your  night  of 

wrong  ! 

Arise  and  flee  !  shake  off  the  vile  re 
straint 

Of  ages  ;  but,  like  Ballymena's  saint, 
The  oppressor  spare, 

Heap  only  on  his  head  the  coals  of 
prayer. 

Go  forth,  like  him  !  like  him  return 
again, 

To  bless  the  land  whereon  in  bitter  pain 
Ye  toiled  at  first, 

And  heal  with  freedom  what  your  slav 
ery  cursed. 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

[Read  before  the  Alumni  of  the  Friends1  Yearly 
Meeting  School,  at  the  Annual  Meeting  at  New 
port,  R.  I.,  15th  6th  mo.,  1863.] 

ONCE  more,  dear  friends,  you  meet  be 
neath 

A  clouded  sky  : 

Not  yet  the  sword  has  found  its  sheath, 
And  on  the  sweet  spring  airs  the  breath 

Of  war  floats  by. 


Yet  trouble  springs  not  from  the  ground. 

Nor  pain  from  chance ; 
The  Eternal  orders  circles  round, 
And  wave   and    storm  find  mete  and 
bound 

In  Providence. 

Full  long  our  feet  the  flowery  ways 

Of  peace  have  trod, 

Content  with  creed  and  garb  and  phrase  : 
A  harder  path  in  earlier  days 

Led  up  to  God. 

Too  cheaply  truths,  once  purchased  dear, 

Are  made  our  own  ; 
Too  long  the  world  has  smiled  to  hear 
Our  boast  of  full  corn  in  the  ear 

By  others  sown  ; 

To  see  us  stir  the  martyr  fires 

Of  long  ago, 

And  wrap  our  satisfied  desires 
In  the  singed  mantles  that  our  sires 

Have  dropped  below. 

But  now  the  cross  our  worthies  bore 

On  us  is  laid  ; 

Profession's  quiet  sleep  is  o'er, 
And  in  the  scale  of  truth  once  more 

Our  faith  is  weighed. 

The  cry  of  innocent  blood  at  last 

Is  calling  down 

An  answer  in  the  whirlwind-blast, 
The  thuiider  and  the  shadow  cast 

From  Heaven's  dark  frown. 

The  land  is  red  with  judgments.     "Who 

Stands  guiltless  forth  ? 
Have  we  been  faithful  as  we  knew, 
To  God  and  to  our  brother  true, 

To  Heaven  and  Earth  ? 

How  faint,  through  din  of  merchandise 

And  count  of  gain, 

Have  seemed  to  us  the  captive's  cries  ! 
How  far  away  the  tears  and  sighs 

Of  souls  in  pain  ! 

This  day  the  fearful  reckoning  come* 

To  each  and  all  ; 

We  hear  amidst  our  peaceful  homes 
The  summons  of  the  conscript  drums, 

The  bugle's  call. 

Our  path  is  plain  ;  the  war-net  draws 
Round  us  in  vain, 


268 


IN    WAR   TIME. 


While,  faithful  to  the  Higher  Cause, 
We  keep  our  fealty  to  the  laws 
Through  patient  pain. 

The  levelled  gun,  the  battle-brand, 

We  may  not  take  : 
But,  calmly  loyal,  we  can  stand 
And  suffer  with  our  suffering  laud 

For  conscience'  sake. 

"Why  ask  for  ease  where  all  is  pain  ? 

Shall  we  alone 

Be  left  to  add  our  gain  to  gain, 
When  over  Armageddon's  plain 

The  trump  is  blown  ? 

To  suffer  well  is  well  to  serve  ; 

Safe  in  our  Lord 
The  rigid  lines  of  law  shall  curve 
To  spare  us  ;  from  our  heads  shall  swerve 

Its  smiting  sword. 

And  light  is  mingled  with  the  gloom, 

And  joy  with  grief  ; 
Divinest  compensations  come, 
Through    thorns   of   judgment  mercies 
bloom 

In  sweet  relief. 

Thanks  for  our  privilege  to  bless, 

By  word  and  deed, 
The  widow  in  her  keen  distress, 
The  childless  and  the  fatherless, 

The  hearts  that  bleed  ! 

For  fields  of  duty,  opening  wide, 

Where  all  our  powers 
Are  tasked  the  eager  steps  to  guide 
Of  millions  on  a  path  untried  : 

THE  SLAVE  is  OURS  ! 

Ours  by  traditions  dear  and  old, 

Which  make  the  race 
Our  wards  to  cherish  and  uphold, 
And  cast  their  freedom  in  the  mould 

Of  Christian  grace. 

And  we  may  tread  the  sick-bed  floors 

Where  strong  men  pine, 
And,  down  the  groaning  corridors, 
Pour  freely  from  our  liberal  stores 

The  oil  and  wine. 

Who  murmurs  that  in  these  dark  days 

His  lot  is  cast  ? 

God's  hand  within  the  shadow  lays 
The  stones  whereon  His  gates  of  praise 

Shall  rise  at  last. 


Turn  and  o'erturn,  0  outstretched  Hand  5 

Nor  stint,  nor  stay  ; 
The   years    have   never    dropped    their 

sand 
On  mortal  issue  vast  and  grand 

As  ours  to-day. 

Already,  on  the  sable  ground 

Of  man's  despair 

Is  Freedom's  glorious  picture  found, 
With  all  its  dusky  hands  unbound 

Upraised  in  prayer. 

0,  small  shall  seem  all  sacrifice 

And  pain  and  loss, 

When  God  shall  wipe  the  weeping  eyes. 
For  suffering  give  the  victor's  prize, 

The  crown  for  cross  ! 


AT   PORT  ROYAL. 

THE  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land, 

The  ship-lights  on  the  sea  ; 
The  night-wind  smooths  with  drifting 
sand 

Our  track  on  lone  Tybee. 

At  last  our  grating  keels  outslide, 
Our  good  boats  forward  swing  ; 

And  while  we  ride  the  land-locked  tide, 
Our  negroes  row  and  sing. 

For  dear  the  bondman  holds  his  gifts 

Of  nrasic  and  of  song  : 
The  gold  that  kindly  Nature  sifts 

Among  his  sands  of  wrong  ; 

The  power  to  make  his  toiling  days 
And  poor  home-comforts  please  ; 

The  quaint  relief  of  mirth  that  plays 
With  sorrow's  minor  keys. 

Another  glow  than  sunset's  fire 
Has  filled  the  West  with  light, 

Where  field  and  garner,  barn  and  byre, 
Are  blazing  through  the  night. 

The  land  is  wild  with  fear  and  hate, 
The  rout  runs  mad  and  fast  ; 

From  hand  to  hand,  from  gate  to  gate 
The  flaming  brand  is  passed. 

The  lurid  glow  falls  strong  across 
Dark  faces  broad  with  smiles  : 

Not  theirs  the  terror,  hate,  and  loss 
That  fire  yon  blazing  piles. 


BARBARA   FRIETCHIE. 


269 


With  oar-strokes  timing  to  their  song, 
They  weave  in  simple  lays 

The  pathos  of  remembered  wrong, 
The  hope  of  better  days,  — 

The  triumph-note  that  Miriam  sung, 

The  joy  of  uncaged  birds  : 
Softening  with  Afric's  mellow  tongue 

Their  broken  Saxon  words. 


SONG   OF   THE    NEGRO    BOATMEN. 

0,  praise  an'  tanks  !     De  Lord  he  come 

To  set  de  people  free  ; 
An'  massa  tink  it  day  ob  doom, 

An'  we  ob  jubilee. 
De  Lord  dat  heap  de  Red  Sea  waves 

He  jus'  as  'trong  as  den  ; 
He  say  de  word  :  we  las'  night  slaves  ; 
To-day,  de  Lord's  freemen. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  ; 
0  nebber  you  fear,   if  nebber  you 

hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

Ole  massa  on  he  trabbels  gone  ; 

He  leaf  de  land  behind  : 
De  Lord's  breff  blow  him  furder  on, 

Like  corn-shuck  in  de  wind. 
"We  own  de  hoe,  we  own  de  plough, 

We  own  de  hands  dat  hold  ; 
We  sell  de  pig,  we  sell  de  cow, 
But  nebber  chile  be  sold. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  ; 
O  nebber  you  fear,   if  nebber  you 

hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

We  pray  de  Lord  :  he  gib  us  signs 

Dat  some  day  we  be  free  ; 
De  norf-wind  tell  it  to  de  pines, 

De  wild-duck  to  de  sea  ; 
We  tink  it  when  de  church-bell  ring, 

We  dream  it  in  de  dream  ; 
De  rice-bird  mean  it  when  he  sing, 
De  eagle  when  he  scream. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
0  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber    you 

hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

We  know  de  promise  nebber  fail, 
An'  nebber  lie  de  word  ; 


So  like  de  'postles  in.  de  jail, 

We  waited  for  de  Lord  : 
An'  now  he  open  ebery  door, 

An'  trow  away  de  key  ; 
He  tink  we  lub  him  so  before, 
We  lub  him  better  free . 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

He  '11  gib  de  rice  an'  corn  ; 
0  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you 

hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 


So  sing  our  dusky  gondoliers  ; 

And  with  a  secret  pain, 
And  smiles  that  seem  akin  to  tears, 

We  hear  the  wild  refrain. 

We  dare  not  share  the  negro's  trust, 

Nor  yet  his  hope  deny  ; 
We  only  know  that  God  is  just, 

And  every  wrong  shall  die. 

Rude  seems  the  song  ;  each  swarthy  face, 

Flame-lighted,  ruder  still : 
We  start  to  think  that  hapless  race 

Must  shape  our  good  or  ill ; 

That  laws  of  changeless  justice  bind 

Oppressor  with  oppressed  ; 
And,  close  as  sin  and  suffering  joined, 

We  march  to  Fate  abreast. 

Sing  on,  poor  hearts  !  your  chant  shall 
be 

Our  sign  of  blight  or  bloom,  — 
The  Vala-song  of  Liberty, 

Or  death-rune  of  our  doom  ! 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE. 

UP  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  mom  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain- 
wall,  — 


270 


BALLADS. 


Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind  :  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten  ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 
She  took  up  the  flag  the   men  hauled 
down; 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced  :  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"  Halt !  "  — the  dust-brown  ranks  stood 

fast. 
"  Fire  !  "  —  out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash  ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf. 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 


"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came  ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word : 

' '  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog  !     March  on  !  "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet  : 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

F,ver  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well ; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the   Rebel  rides  on   his  raids  no 


Honor  to  her  !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave  ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law  ; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town  ! 


BALLADS. 


COBBLER  KEEZAR'S  VISION.73 

THE  beaver  cut  his  timber 
With  patient  teeth  that  day, 

The  minks    were  fish-wards,    and  the 

crows 
Surveyors  of  highway,  — 

When  Keezar  sat  on  the  hillside 

Upon  his  cobbler's  form, 
With  a  pan  of  coals  on  either  hand 

To  keep  his  waxed-ends  warm. 


And  there,  in  the  golden  weather, 
He  stitched  and  hammered  and  sung; 

In  the  brook  he  moistened  his  leather, 
In  the  pewter  mug  his  tongue. 

Well  knew  the  tough  old  Teuton 
Who  brewed  the  stoutest  ale, 

And  he  paid  the  goodwife's  reckoning 
In  the  coin  of  song  and  tale. 

The  songs  they  still  are  singing 
Who  dress  the  hills  of  vine, 


COBBLEE  KEEZAK'S  VISION. 


271 


The  tales  that  haunt  the  Brocken 
And  whisper  down  the  Rhine. 

Woodsy  and  wild  and  lonesome, 
The  swift  stream  wound  away, 

Through  birches  and  scarlet  maples 
Flashing  in  foam  and  spray,  — 

Down  on  the  sharp-horned  ledges 

Plunging  in  steep  cascade, 
Tossing  its  white-maned  waters 

Against  the  hemlock's  shade. 

"Woodsy  and  wild  and  lonesome, 

East  and  west  and  north  and  south  ; 

Only  the  village  of  iishers 
Down  at  the  river's  mouth  ; 

Only  here  and  there  a  clearing, 

With  its  farm-house  rude  and  new, 

And  tree-stumps,  swart  as  Indians, 
Where  the  scanty  harvest  grew. 

No  shout  of  home-bound  reapers, 

No  vintage-song  he  heard, 
And  on  the  green  no  dancing  feet 

The  merry  violin  stirred. 

"  Why  should  folk  be  glum,"  said  Kee- 
zar, 

"  When  Nature  herself  is  glad, 
And  the  painted  woods  are  laughing 

At  the  faces  so  sour  and  sad  ?  " 

Small  heed  had  the  careless  cobbler 
What  sorrow  of  heart  was  theirs 

Who  travailed  in  pain  with  the  births 

of  God, 
And  planted  a  state  with  prayers,  — 

Hunting  of  witches  and  warlocks, 
Smiting  the  heathen  horde,  — 

One  hand  on  the  mason's  trowel, 
And  one  on  the  soldier's  sword  ! 

But  give  him  his  ale  and  cider, 
Give  him  his  pipe  and  song, 

Little  he  cared  for  Church  or  State, 
Or  the  balance  of  right  and  wrong. 

"'Tis    work,    work,    work,"   he    mut 
tered,  - 

"  And  for  rest  a  snuffle  of  psalms  !  " 
He  smote  on  his  leathern  apron 

With  his  brown  and  waxen  palms. 

"  0  for  the  purple  harvests 
Of  the  days  when  I  was  young  ! 


For  the  merry  grape-stained  maidens, 
And  the  pleasant  songs  they  sung  1 

"  0  for  the  breath  of  vineyards, 
Of  apples  and  nuts  and  wine  ! 

For  an  oar  to  row  and  a  breeze  to  blow 
Down  the  grand  old  river  Rhine  !  " 

A  tear  in  his  blue  eye  glistened, 
And  dropped  on  his  beard  so  gray. 

"Old,  old  am  I,"  said  Keezar, 

"  And  the  Rhine  flows  far  away  !  " 

But  a  cunning  man  was  the  cobbler  ; 

He  could  call  the  birds  from  the  trees, 
Charm  the  black  snake  out  of  the  ledges, 

And  bring  back  the  swarming  bees. 

All  the  virtues  of  herbs  and  metals, 
All  the  lore  of  the  woods,  he  knew, 

And  the  arts  of  the  Old  World  mingled 
With  the  marvels  of  the  New. 

Well  he  knew  the  tricks  of  magic, 
And  the  lapstone  on  his  knee 

Had  the  gift  of  the  Mormon's  goggles 
Or  the  stone  of  Doctor  Dee. 

For  the  mighty  master  Agrippa 
Wrought  it  with  spell  and  rhyme 

From  a  fragment  of  mystic  moonstone 
In  the  tower  of  Nettesheim. 

To  a  cobbler  Minnesinger 

The  marvellous  stone  gave  he,  — 

And  he  gave  it,  in  turn,  to  Keezar, 
Who  brought  it  over  the  sea. 

He  held  up  that  mystic  lapstone, 

He  held  it  up  like  a  lens, 
And  he  counted  the  long  years  coming 

By  twenties  and  by  tens. 

"One  hundred  years,"  quoth  Keezar, 

"And  fifty  have  I  told: 
Now  open  the  new  before  me, 

And  shut  me  out  the  old  ! " 

Like  a  cloud  of  mist,  the  blackness 
Rolled  from  the  magic  stone, 

And  a  marvellous  picture  mingled 
The  unknown  and  the  known. 

Still  ran  the  stream  to  the  river, 
And  river  and  ocean  joined  ; 

And  there  were  the  bluffs  and  the  blue 

sea-line, 
And  cold  north  hills  behind. 


272 


BALLADS. 


But  the  mighty  forest  was  broken 

By  many  a  steepled  town, 
By  many  a  white- walled  farm-house, 

And  many  a  garner  brown. 

Turning  a  score  of  mill-wheels, 
The  stream  no  more  ran  free  ; 

White  sails  on  the  winding  river, 
White  sails  on  the  far-off  sea. 

Below  in  the  noisy  village 

The  flags  were  floating  gay, 
And  shone  on  a  thousand  faces 

The  light  of  a  holiday. 

Swiftly  the  rival  ploughmen 

Turned  the  brown  earth  from  their 

shares  ; 
Here  were  the  farmer's  treasures, 

There  were  the  craftsman's  wares. 

Golden  the  goodwife's  butter, 

Ruby  her  currant-wine  ; 
Grand  were  the  strutting  turkeys, 

Fat  were  the  beeves  and  swine. 

Yellow  and  red  were  the  apples, 
And  the  ripe  pears  russet-brown, 

And  the  peaches  had  stolen  blushes 
From    the    girls    who    shook    them 
down. 

And  with    blooms   of   hill    and   wild- 
wood, 

That  shame  the  toil  of  art, 
Mingled  the  gorgeous  blossoms 

Of  the  garden's  tropic  heart. 

"  What  is  it  I  see  ?"  said  Keezar  : 
"  Am  I  here,  or  am  I  there  ? 

Is  it  a  fete  at  Bingen  ? 

Do  I  look  on  Frankfort  fair  ? 

"  But  where  are  the  clowns  and  pup 
pets, 

And  imps  with  horns  and  tail  ? 
And  where  are  the  Rhenish  flagons  ? 

And  where  is  the  foaming  ale  ? 

"Strange   things,    I    know,    will   hap 
pen,  — 

Strange  things  the  Lord  permits  ; 
But  that  droughty  folk  should  be  jolly 

Puzzles  my  poor  old  wits. 

"  Here  are  smiling  manly  faces, 
And  the  maiden's  step  is  gay  ; 


Nor  sad  by  thinking,  nor  mad  by  drink 

ing, 
Nor  mopes,  nor  fools,  are  they. 

"  Here 's  pleasure  without  regretting^ 

And  good  without  abuse, 
The  holiday  and  the  bridal 

Of  beauty  and  of  use. 

"Here's   a  priest  and  there  is  a  Qua 
ker,  — 

Do  the  cat  and  dog  agree  ? 
Have  they  burned  the  stocks  for  oven- 
wood  ? 
Have  they  cut  down  the  gallows-tree  ? 

"  Would  the  old  folk  know  their  chil 
dren  ? 

Would  they  own  the  graceless  town, 
With  never  a  ranter  to  worry 

And  never  a  witch  to  drown  ?  " 

Loud  laughed  the  cobbler  Keezar, 
Laughed  like  a  school-boy  gay  ; 

Tossing  his  arms  above  him, 
The  lapstone  rolled  away. 

It  rolled  down  the  rugged  hillside, 
It  spun  like  a  wheel  bewitched, 

It  plunged  through  the  leaning  willows, 
And  into  the  river  pitched. 

There,  in  the  deep,  dark  water, 

The  magic  stone  lies  still, 
Under  the  leaning  willows 

In  the  shadow  of  the  hill. 

But  eft  the  idle  fisher 

Sits  on  the  shadowy  bank, 
And   his  dreams  make   marvellous  pic 
tures 

Where  the  wizard's  lapstone  sank. 

And  still,  in  the  summer  twilights, 
When  the  river  seems  to  run 

Out  from  the  inner  glory, 
Warm  with  the  melted  sun, 

The  weary  mill-girl  lingers 

Beside  the  charmed  stream, 
And  the  sky  and  the  golden  water 

Shape  and  color  her  dream. 

Fair  wave  the  sunset  gardens, 

The  rosy  signals  fly  ; 
Her  homestead  beckons  from  the  cloud, 

And  love  goes  sailing  by ; 


AMY   WENTWORTH. 
AMY  WENTWORTH. 

TO   W.   B. 


273 


As  they  who  watch  Tt>y  sick-beds  find 

relief 
Unwittingly   from   the   great   stress   of 

grief 
And    anxious    care    in    fantasies    out- 

wrought 
From  the  hearth's  embers  flickering  low, 

or  caught 

From  whispering  wind,  or  tread  of  pass 
ing  feet, 
Or   vagrant    memory   calling   up    some 

sweet 
Snatch  of  old  song  or  romance,  whence 

or  why 
They  scarcely  know  or  ask,  —  so,  thou 

and  I, 
Nursed  in  the  faith  that  Truth  alone  is 

strong 
In     the    endurance    which    outwearies 

Wrong, 
With   meek  persistence  baffling  brutal 

force, 

And  trusting  God  against  the  universe,  — 
We,  doomed   to  watch  a  strife  we  may 

not  share 
With  other  weapons  than  the  patriot's 

prayer, 

Yet  owning,  with  full  hearts  and  moist 
ened  eyes, 

The  awful  beauty  of  self-sacrifice, 
And  wrung  by  keenest  sympathy  for  all 
Who  give  their  loved  ones  for  the  living 

wall 
'Tvvixt  law  and  treason,  —  in  this  evil 

day 

May  haply  find,  through  automatic  play 
Of  pen  and  pencil,  solace  to  our  pain, 
And  hearten  others  with  the  strength  we 

gain. 

I  know  it  has  been  said  our  times  re 
quire 
No  play  of  art,  nor  dalliance  with  the 

lyre, 

No  weak  essay  with  Fancy's  chloroform 
To   calm   the   hot,    mad   pulses   of  the 

storm, 
But  the  stern  war-blast  rather,  such  as 

sets 

The  battle's  teeth  of  serried  bayonets, 
And   pictures   grim   as   Vernet's.      Yet 

with  these 
Some  softer  tints  may  blend,  and  milder 


keys 


18 


Relieve  the  storm-stunned  ear.     Let  us 

keep  sweet, 
Tf  so  we  may,  our  hearts,  even  while  we 

eat 

The  bitter  harvest  of  our  own  device 
And  half  a  century's  moral  cowardice. 
As   Niirnberg   sang    while    Wittenberg 

defied, 
And  Kranach  painted  by  his   Luther's 

side, 

And  through  the  war-march  of  the  Pu 
ritan 
The   silver   stream  of  Mar  veil's   music 

ran, 

So  let  the  household  melodies  be  sung, 
The   pleasant   pictures   on  the   wall  be 

hung,  — 

So  let  us  hold  against  the  hosts  of  night 
And  slavery  all  our  vantage-ground  of 

light. 
Let   Treason    boast    its  savagery,    and 

shake 

From   its  flag-folds  its   symbol  rattle 
snake, 
Nurse  its  fine  arts,  lay  human  skins  in 

tan, 
And  carve  its  pipe-bowls  from  the  bones 

of  man, 
And  make  the  tale  of  Fijian  banquets 

dull 
By     drinking    whiskey    from    a    loyal 

skull,  — 
But  let  us  guard,  till  this  sad  war  shall 

cease, 
(God   grant  it  soon  !)  the  graceful  arts 

of  peace  : 
No  foes  are  conquered  who  the  victors 

teach 
Their    vandal     manners    and    barbaric 

speech. 

And  while,  with  hearts  of  thankfulness, 

we  bear 
Of  the  great  common  burden  our  full 

share, 
Let   none   upbraid   us   that   the   waves 

entice 
Thy  sea-dipped  pencil,  or  some  quaint 

device, 
Rhythmic  and  sweet,  beguiles  my  pen 

away 
From  the   sharp  strifes  and  sorrows  of 

to-day. 
Thus,   while   the   east-wind   keen  from 

Labrador 
Sings  in  the  leafless  elms,  and  from  the 

shore 


274 


BALLADS. 


Of  the  great  sea  comes  the  monotonous 

roar 
Of  the  long-breaking  surf,   and  all  the 

sky 
Is  gray   with   cloud,   home-bound   and 

dull,  I  try 

To  time  a  simple  legend  to  the  sounds 
Of  winds  in  the  woods,  and  waves  on 

pebbled  bounds,  — 
A  song  for  oars  to  chime  with,  such  as 

might 
Be  sung  by  tired   sea-painters,  who  at 

night 
Look  from    their  hemlock   camps,    by 

quiet  cove 
Or  beach,  moon-lighted,  on   the  waves 

they  love. 
(So  hast  thou  looked,  when  level  sunset 

lay 
On   the   calm   bosom  of   some  Eastern 

bay, 
And  all  the  spray-moist  rocks  and  waves 

that  rolled 
Up  the  white  sand-slopes  flashed  with 

ruddy  gold.) 
Something    it    has  —  a    flavor    of    the 

sea, 
And  the  sea's  freedom  —  which  reminds 

of  thee. 

Its  faded  picture,  dimly  smiling  down 
From  the  blurred  fresco  of  the  ancient 

town, 
I  have  not  touched  with  warmer  tints  in 

vain, 
If,  in  this  dark,  sad  year,  it  steals  one 

thought  from  pain. 


HER  fingers  shame  the  ivory  keys 

They  dance  so  light  along  ; 
The  bloom  upon  her  parted  lips 

Is  sweeter  than  the  song. 

0  perfumed  suitor,  spare  thy  smiles  ! 

Her  thoughts  are  not  of  thee  ; 
She  better  loves  the  salted  wind, 

The  voices  of  the  sea. 

Her  heart  is  like  an  outbound  ship 

That  at  its  anchor  swings  ; 
The  murmur  of  the  stranded  shell 

Is  in  the  song  she  sings. 

She  sings,  and,  smiling,  hears  her  praise, 
But  dreams  the  while  of  one 

Who  watches  from  his  sea-blown  deck 
The  icebergs  in  the  sun. 


She  questions  all  the  winds  that  blow, 

And  every  fog- wreath  dim, 
And  bids  the  sea-birds  flying  north 

Boar  messages  to  him. 

She  speeds  them  with  the  thanks  of  men 

He  perilled  life  to  save, 
And  grateful  prayers  like  holy  oil 

To  smooth  for  him  the  wave. 

Brown  Viking  of  the  fishing-smack  ! 

Fair  toast  of  all  the  town  !  — 
The  skipper's  jerkin  ill  beseems 

The  lady's  silken  gown  ! 

But  ne'er  shall  Amy  Wentworth  wear 
For  him  the  blush  of  shame 

Who  dares  to  set  his  manly  gifts 
Against  her  ancient  name. 

The  stream  is  brightest  at  its  spring, 
And  blood  is  not  like  wine  ; 

Nor  honored  less  than  he  who  heirs 
Is  he  who  founds  a  line. 

Full  lightly  shall  the  prize  be  won, 

If  love  be  Fortune's  spur  ; 
And  never  maiden  stoops  to  him 

Who  lifts  himself  to  her. 

Her  home  is  brave  in  Jaffrey  Street, 
With  stately  stairways  worn 

By  feet  of  old  Colonial  knights 
And  ladies  gentle-born. 

Still  green  about  its  ample  porch 

The  English  ivy  twines, 
Trained  back  to  show  in  English  oak 

The  herald's  carven  signs. 

And  on  her,  from  the  wainscot  old, 

Ancestral  faces  frown,  — 
And  this  has  worn  the  soldier's  sword,. 

And  that  the  judge's  gown. 

But,  strong  of  will  and  proud  as  they, 

She  walks  the  gallery  floor 
As  if  she  trod  her  sailor's  deck 

By  stormy  Labrador  ! 

The  sweetbrier  blooms  on  Kittery-sido, 
And  green  are  Elliot's  bowers  ; 

Her  garden  is  the  pebbled  beach, 
The  mosses  are  her  flowers. 

She  looks  across  the  harbor-bar 
To  see  the  white  gulls  fly ; 


THE   COUNTESS. 


275 


His  greeting  from  the  Northern  sea 
Is  in  theii  clanging  cry. 

She  hums  a  song,  and  dreams  that  he, 

As  in  its  romance  old, 
Shall  homeward  ride  with  silken  sails 

And  masts  of  beaten  gold  ! 

0,  rank  is  good,  and  gold  is  fair, 
And  high  and  low  mate  ill ; 

But  love  has  never  known  a  law 
Beyond  its  own  sweet  will  ! 


THE  COUNTESS. 

TO    E.    W. 

I  KNOW  not,  Time  and  Space  so  inter 
vene, 

Whether,  still  waiting  with  a  trust  se 
rene, 

Thou  bearest  up  thy  fourscore  years  and 
ten, 

Or,  called  at  last,  art  now  Heaven's  cit 
izen  ; 

But,  here  or  there,  a  pleasant  thought 
of  thee, 

Like  an  old  friend,  all  day  has  been 
with  me. 

The  shy,  still  boy,  for  whom  thy  kindly 
hand 

Smoothed  his  hard  pathway  to  the  won 
der-land 

Of  thought  and  fancy,  in  gray  manhood 
yet 

Keeps  green  the  memory  of  his  early 
debt. 

To-day,  when  truth  and  falsehood  speak 
their  words 

Through  hot-lipped  cannon  and  the  teeth 
of  swords, 

Listening  with  quickened  heart  and  ear 
intent 

To  each  sharp  clause  of  that  stern  argu 
ment, 

1  still  can  hear  at  times  a  softer  note 

Of  the  old  pastoral  music  round  me  float, 

While  through  the  hot  gleam  of  our 
civil  strife 

Looms  the  green  mirage  of  a  simpler 
life. 

As,  at  his  alien  post,  the  sentinel 

Props  the  old  bucket  in  the  homestead 
well, 

A.nd  hears  old  voices  in  the  winds  that 
toss 


Above  his  head  the  live-oak's  beard  of 

moss, 

So,  in  our  trial-time,  and  under  skies 
Shadowed  by  swords  like  Islam's  para 
dise, 
I  wait  and  watch,   and  let  my  fancy 

stray 
To  milder  scenes  and  youth's  Arcadian 

day; 
And    howsoe'er  the    pencil   dipped   in 

dreams 
Shades  the  brown  woods  or  tints  the 

sunset  streams, 
The  country  doctor  in  the  foreground 

seerns, 
Whose  ancient  sulky  down  the  village 

lanes 
Dragged,  like  a  war-car,  captive  ills  and 

r'ns. 
lot  paint  the  scenery  of  my 
song, 

Mindless  of  one  who  looked  thereon  so 
long ; 

Who,  night  and  day,  on  duty's  lonely 
round, 

Made  friends  o'  the  woods  and  rocks, 
and  knew  the  sound 

Of  each  small  brook,  and  what  the  hill 
side  trees 

Said  to  the  winds  that  touched  their 
leafy  keys  ; 

Who  saw  so  keenly  and  so  well  could 
paint 

The  village -folk,  with  all  their  humors 
quaint,  — 

The  parson  ambling  on  his  wall-eyed 
roan, 

Grave  and  erect,  with  white  hair  back 
ward  blown  ; 

The  tough  old  boatman,  half  amphibious 
grown  ; 

The  muttering  witch- wife  of  the  gossip's 
tale, 

And  the  loud  straggler  levying  his  black 
mail,  — 

Old  customs,  habits,  superstitions,  fears, 

All  that  lies  buried  under  fifty  years. 

To  thee,   as   is   most   fit,    I    bring  my 

lay, 

And,  grateful,  own  the  debt  I  cannot 
Pay- 


Over  the  wooded  northern  ridge, 
Between  its  houses  brown, 

To  the  dark  tunnel  of  the  bridge 
The  street  comes  straggling  down. 


276 


BALLADS. 


You  catch  a  glimpse,  through  birch  and 
pine, 

Of  gable,  roof,  and  porch, 
The  tavern  with  its  swinging  sign, 

The  sharp  horn  of  the  church. 

The  river's  steel-blue  crescent  curves 

To  meet,  in  ebb  and  flow, 
The  single  broken  wharf  that  serves 

For  sloop  and  gundelow. 

With  salt  sea- scents  along  its  shores 

The  heavy  hay-boats  crawl, 
The  long  antennae  of  their  oars 

In  lazy  rise  and  fall. 

Along  the  gray  abutment's  wall 

The  idle  shad-net  dries ; 
The  toll-man  in  his  cobbler's  stall 

Sits  smoking  with  closed  eyes. 

You  hear  the  pier's  low  undertone 
Of  waves  that  chafe  and  gnaw  ; 

You  start,  —  a  skipper's  horn  is  blown 
To  raise  the  creaking  draw. 

At  times  a  blacksmith's  anvil  sounds 
With  slow  and  sluggard  beat, 

Or  stage-coach  on  its  dusty  rounds 
Wakes  up  the  staring  street. 

A  place  for  idle  eyes  and  ears, 
A  cobw ebbed  nook  of  dreams  ; 

Left   by  the   stream   whose   waves   are 

years 
The  stranded  village  seems. 

And  there,  like  other  moss  and  rust, 

The  native  dweller  clings, 
And  keeps,  in  imin quiring  trust, 

The  old,  dull  round  of  things. 

The  fisher  drops  his  patient  lines, 

The  farmer  sows  his  grain, 
Content  to  hear  the  murmuring  pines 

Instead  of  railroad-train. 

Go  where,  along  the  tangled  steep 
That  slopes  against  the  west, 

The  hamlet's  buried  idlers  sleep 
In  still  profounder  rest. 

Throw  back  the  locust's  flowery  plume, 
The  birch's  pale-green  scarf, 

And  break  the  web  of  brier  and  bloom 
From  name  and  epitaph. 


A  simple  muster-roll  of  death, 
Of  pomp  and  romance  shorn, 

The  dry,  old  names  that  common  breath 
Has  cheapened  and  outworn. 

Yet  pause  by  one  low  mound,  and  part 

The  wild  vines  o'er  it  laced, 
And  read  the  words  by  rustic  art 

Upon  its  headstone  traced. 

Haply  yon  white-haired  villager 

Of  fourscore  years  can  say 
What  means  the  noble  name  of  her 

Who  sleeps  with  common  clay. 

An  exile  from  the  Gascon  land 

Foiind  refuge  here  and  rest, 
And  loved,  of  all  the  village  band, 

Its  fairest  and  its  best. 

He  knelt  with  her  on  Sabbath  morns, 
He  worshipped  through  her  eyes, 

And  on  the  pride  that  doubts  and  scorns 
Stole  in  her  faith's  surprise. 

Her  simple  daily  life  he  saw 

By  homeliest  duties  tried, 
In  all  things  by  an  untaught  law 

Of  fitness  justified. 

For  her  his  rank  aside  he  laid  ; 

He  took  the  hue  and  tone 
Of  lowly  life  and  toil,  and  made 

Her  simple  ways  his  own. 

Yet  still,  in  gay  and  careless  ease, 

To  harvest-field  or  dance 
He  brought  the  gentle  courtesies, 

The  nameless  grace  of  France. 

And  she  who  taught  him  love  not  less 

From  him  she  loved  in  turn 
Caught  in  her  sweet  unconsciousness 

What  love  is  quick  to  learn. 

Each  grew  to  each  in  pleased  accord, 

Nor  knew  the  gazing  town 
If  she  looked  upward  to  her  lord 

Or  he  to  her  looked  down. 

How  sweet,  when  summer's  day  was  o'er, 

His  violin's  mirth  and  wail, 
The  walk  on  pleasant  Newbury's  shore, 

The  river's  moonlit  sail ! 

Ah  !  life  is  brief,  though  love  be  long  ; 

The  altar  and  the  bier, 
The  burial  hymn  and  bridal  song, 

Were  both  in  one  short  year  ! 


NAPLES. 


277 


Her  rest  is  quiet  on  the  hill, 
Beneath  the  locust's  bloom  : 

Far  off  her  lover  sleeps  as  still 
Within  his  scutcheoned  tomb. 

The  Gascon  lord,  the  village  maid, 
In  death  still  clasp  their  hands  ,- 

The  love  that  levels  rank  and  grade 
Unites  their  severed  lands. 

What  matter  whose  the  hillside  grave, 
Or  whose  the  blazoned  stone  ? 

Forever  to  her  western  wave 
Shall  whisper  blue  Garonne  ! 

0  Love  !  —  so  hallowing  every  soil 
That  gives  thy  sweet  flower  room, 

Wherever,  nursed  by  ease  or  toil, 
The  human  heart  takes  bloom  !  — 


Plant  of  lost  Eden,  from  the  sod 

Of  sinful  earth  unriven, 
White  blossom  of  the  trees  of  God 

Dropped  down  to  us  from  heaven  !  — 

This  tangled  waste  of  mound  and  stone 

Is  holy  for  thy  sake  ; 
A  sweetness  which  is  all  thy  own 

Breathes  out  from  fern  and  brake. 

And  while  ancestral  pride  shall  twine 
The  Gascon's  tomb  with  flowers, 

Fall  sweetly  here,  0  song  of  mine, 
With  summer's  bloom  and  showers  ! 

And  let  the  lines  that  severed  seem 

Unite  again  in  thee, 
As  western  wave  and  Gallic  stream 

Are  mingled  in  one  sea  ! 


OCCASIONAL    POEMS 


NAPLES. 
1860. 

INSCRIBED    TO    ROBERT   C.    WATERSTON, 
OF   BOSTON. 

I  GIVE  thee  joy  !  —  I  know  to  thee 
The   dearest    spot  on    earth  must 

be 

Where  sleeps  thy  loved  one  by  the  sum 
mer  sea ; 

Where,    near    her  sweetest    poet's 

tomb, 

The  land  of  Virgil  gave  thee  room 
To  lay  thy  flower  with  her  perpetual 

bloom. 

I   know  that  when   the   sky  shut 

down 

Behind  thee  on  the  gleaming  town, 
On  Baise's  baths  and  Posilippo's  crown  ; 

And,  through  thy  tears,  the  mock 
ing  day 

Burned     Ischia's    mountain    lines 

away, 
And  Capri  melted  in  its  sunny  bay, 


Through  thy  great  farewell  sorrow 

shot 

The  sharp  pang  of  a  bitter  thought 
That  slaves  must  tread  around  that  holy 

spot. 

Thou  knewest  not  the  land  was 

blest 

In  giving  thy  beloved  rest, 
Holding  the  fond  hope  closer  to  her 

breast 

That  every  sweet  and  saintly  grave 
Was  freedom's  prophecy,  and  gave 
The  pledge  of  Heaven  to  sanctify  and 
save. 

That  pledge  is  answered.     To  thy  ear 
The  unchained  city  sends  its  cheer, 
And,  t-i  aed  to  joy,  the  muffled  bells  of 
fear 

Ring  Victor  in.     The  land  sits  free 
And  happy  by  the  summer  sea, 
And  Bourbon  Naples  now  is  Italy  ! 

She  smiles  above  her  broken  chain 
The  languid  smile  that  follows  pain, 
Stretching  her  cramped  limbs  to  the  sim 
again. 


278 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


0,  joy  for  all,  who  hear  her  call 
From  gray  Cainaldoli's  convent-wall 
And  Elmo's  towers  to  freedom's  carni 
val ! 

A  new  life  breathes  among  her  vines 
And  olives,  like  the  breath  of  pines 
Blown  downward  from  the  breezy  Apen 
nines. 

Lean,  0,  my  friend,  to  meet  that 

breath, 

Rejoice  as  one  who  witnesseth 
Beauty  from  ashes  rise,  and  life  from 

death  ! 

Thy  sorrow  shall  no  more  be  pain, 
Its  tears  shall  fall  in  sunlit  rain, 
"Writing  the  grave  with  flowers  :  ' '  Arisen 
again  !  " 


THE  SUMMONS. 

MY  ear  is  full  of  summer  sounds, 
Of  summer  sights  my  languid  eye  ; 

Beyond  the  dusty  village  bounds 

I  loiter  in  my  daily  rounds, 

And  in  the  noon-time  shadows  lie. 

J  hear  the  wild  bee  wind  his  horn, 

The  bird  swings  on  the  ripened  wheat, 
The  long  green  lances  of  the  corn 
Are  tilting  in  the  winds  of  morn, 
The  locust  shrills  his  song  of  heat. 

Another  sound  my  spirit  hears, 

A   deeper   sound   that   drowns   them 

all,- 

A  voice  of  pleading  choked  with  tears, 
The  call  of  human  hopes  and  fears, 
The  Macedonian  cry  to  Paul ! 

The  storm-bell  rings,  the  trumpet  blows  ; 

I  know  the  \vord  and  countersign ; 
"Wherever  Freedom's  vanguard  goes, 
Where  stand  or  fall  her  friends  or  foes, 

I  know  the  place  that  should  be  mine. 

Shamed  be  the  hands  that  idly  fold, 

And  lips  that  woo  the  reed's  accord, 
When  laggard  Time  the  hour  has  tolled 
For  true  with  false  and  new  with  old 
To  fight  the  battles  of  the  Lord  ! 

0  brothers  !  blest  by  partial  Fate 

With  power  to  match   the  will  and 
deed, 


To  him  your  summOnt  comes  too  late 
Who  sinks  beneath  his  armor's  weight, 
And  has  no  answer  but  God-speed  ! 

THE  WAITING. 

I  WAIT  and  watch  :  before  my  eyes 
Methinks  the   night  grows  thin   an<J 

gi'ay ; 

I  wait  and  watch  the  eastern  skies 
To  see  the  golden  spears  uprise 
Beneath  the  oriflamme  of  day  ! 

Like   one    whose   limbs   are    bound  in 

trance 

I  hear  the  day-sounds  swell  and  grow, 
Arid  see  across  the  twilight  glance, 
Troop  after  troop,  in  swift  advance, 
The    shining    ones  with    plumes   of 
snow  ! 

I  know  the  errand  of  their  feet, 

I  know  what  mighty  work  is  theirs  ; 
I  can  but  lift  up  hands  unmeet, 
The  threshing-floors  of  God  to  beat, 
And     speed     them     with     unworthy 
prayers. 

I  will  not  dream  in  vain  despair 

The  steps  of  progress  wait  for  me  : 
The  puny  leverage  of  a  hair 
The  planet's  impulse  well  may  spare, 
A  drop  of  dew  the  tided  sea. 

The  loss,  if  loss  there  be,  is  mine, 

And  yet  not  mine  if  understood  ; 
For  one  shall  grasp  and  one  resign, 
One  drink  life's  rue,  and  one  its  wine, 
And   God   shall    make    the    balanct 
good. 

0  power  to  do  !  0  baffled  will  ! 

0  prayer  and  action  !  ye  are  one. 
Who  may  not  strive,  may  yet  fulfil 
The  harder  task  of  standing  still, 

And  good  but  wished  with   God  is 
done  ! 


MOUNTAIN  PICTURES. 
I. 

FRANCONIA   FROM   THE   PEMIGEWASSET. 

ONCE  more,  0  Mountains  of  the  North, 

unveil 

Your  brows,    and    lay  your    cloudy 
mantles  by  1 


MOUNTAIN   PICTURES. 


279 


And  once  more,  ere  the  eyes  that  seek 

ye  fail, 

Uplift  against  the  blue  walls  of  the  sky 
Your  mighty  shapes,  and  let  the  sun 
shine  weave 
Its  golden  net-work  in  your  belting 

woods, 
Smile   down  in  rainbows  from  your 

falling  floods, 

And  on  your  kingly  brows  at  morn  and  eve 
Set  crowns  of  fire  !     So  shall  my  soul 

receive 
Haply    the    secret  of   your    calm   and 

strength, 

Your  unforgotten  beauty  interfuse 
My  common  life,  your  glorious  shapes 

and  hues 
And    sun-dropped    splendors    at   my 

bidding  come, 
Loom     vast     through     dreams,     and 

stretch  in  billowy  length 
From  the  sea-level  of  my  lowland  home  ! 

They  rise    before    me  !      Last    night's 
thunder-gust 

Eoared   not     in     vain  :    for   where    its 
lightnings  thrust 

Their   tongues   of  fire,    the  great  peaks 
seein  so  near, 

Burned  clean  of  mist,  so  starkly  bold 
and  clear, 

I  almost  pause  tlie  wind  in  the  pines  to 
hear, 

The  loose  rock's  fall,  the  steps  of  brows 
ing  deer. 

The  clouds  that  shattered  on  yon  slide- 
worn  walls 

And   splintered   on    the   rocks   their 
spears  of  rain 

Have  set  in  play  a  thousand  waterfalls, 

Making  the  dusk  and  silence  of  the  woods 

Glad  with  the  laughter  of  the  chasing 
floods, 

And  luminous   with   blown   spray  and 
silver  gleams, 

While,    in   the   vales   below,    the    dry- 
lipped  streams 
Sing  to   the  freshened  meadow-lands 
again. 

So,  let  me  hope,  the  battle-storm  that 

beats 
The  land  with  hail  and  fire  may  pass 

away 

"With  its  spent  thunders  at  the  break  o 
day, 

Like  last  night's  clouds,  and  leave,  as  i 
retreats, 


A  greener  earth  and  fairer  sky  be 
hind, 

Blown  crystal-clear  by  Freedom's 
Northern  wind ! 


II. 


MONADNOCK  FROM   WACHUSET. 

I  WOULD  I  were  a  painter,  for  the  sake 
Of  a  sweet  picture,  and  of  her  who  led, 
A  fitting  guide,  with  reverential  tread, 
Into   that   mountain  mystery.     First  a 

lake 
Tinted  with   sunset ;  next  the  wavy 

lines 
Of  far  receding  hills  ;  and  yet  more 

far, 
Monadnock  lifting  from  his  night  of 

pines 

His  rosy  forehead  to  the  evening  star. 
Beside  us,  purple-zoned,  Wachuset  laid 
His  head  against  the  West,  whose 

warm  light  made 
His  aureole  ;  and  o'er  him,    sharp 

and  clear, 

Like  a  shaft  of  lightning  in  mid-launch 
ing  stayed, 

A  single  level  cloud-line,  shone  upon 
By  the  fierce  glances  of  the  sunken  sun, 
Menaced  the  darkness  with  its  gold 
en  spear ! 

So  twilight  deepened  round  us.     Still 

and  black 
The  great  woods  climbed  the  mountain 

at  our  back  ; 

And  on  their  skirts,  where  yet  the  linger 
ing  clay 

On  the  shorn  greenness  of  the  clearing  lay, 
The    brown   old    farm-house    like    a 

bird's-nest  hung. 
With  home-life  sounds  the  desert  air  was 

stirred  : 
The  bleat  of  sheep   along  the  hill   we 

heard, 
The  bucket  plashing  in  the  cool,  sweet 

well, 
The  pasture-bars  that  clattered  as  they 

fell ; 
Dogs    barked,    fowls    fluttered,    cattle 

lowed  ;  the  gate 
Of  the  barn-yard  creaked  beneath  the 

merry  weight 
Of    sun-brown     children,    listening, 

while  they  swung, 


280 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


The  welcome   sound  of  supper-call 

to  hear ; 
And   down   the  shadowy  lane,    in 

tinklings  clear, 
The  pastoral  curfew  of  the   cow-bell 

rung. 
Thus  soothed  and  pleased,  our  backward 

path  we  took, 
Praising  the  farmer's  home.     He  only 

spake, 

Looking  into  the  sunset  o'er  the  lake, 
Like    one  to  whom    the  far-off    is 

most  near  : 
"Yes,  most  folks  think  it  has  a  pleasant 

look; 

I  love  it  for  my  good  old  mother's  sake, 
Who   lived  and  died  here  in  the 

peace  of  God  !  " 
The  lesson  of  his  words  we  pondered 

o'er, 

Arf  silently  we  turned  the  eastern  flank 
Of    the   mountain,    where    its  shadow 

deepest  sank, 
Doubling  the  night  along  our  rugged 

road  : 
We  felt  that   man  was  more  than  his 

abode,  — 

The  inward  life  than   Nature's  rai 
ment  more  ; 
And  the  warm  sky,  the  sundown-tinted 

hill, 
The    forest   and     the    lake,    seemed 

dwarfed  and  dim 
Before   the  saintly   soul,  whose  human 

will 
Meekly  in    the    Eternal  footsteps 

trod, 
Making  her  homely  toil  and  household 

ways 

An  earthly  echo  of  the  song  of  praise 
Swelling  from  angel  lips  and  harps  of 
seraphim. 


OUR  RIVER. 

FOR    A    SUMMER     FESTIVAL     AT     "THE 
LAURELS  "    ON   THE    MERRIMACK. 

ONCE  more  on  yonder  laurelled  height 

The  summer  flowers  have  budded  ; 
Once  more  with  summer's  golden  light 

The  vales  of  home  are  flooded  ; 
And  once  more,  by  the  grace  of  Him 

Of  every  good  the  Giver, 
We  sing  upon  its  wooded  rim 

The  praises  of  our  river ; 


Its  pines  above,  its  waves  below, 

Tne  west-wind  down  it  blowing, 
As  fair  as  when  the  young  Brissot 

Beheld  it  seaward  flowing,  — 
And  bore  its  memory  o'er  the  deep, 

To  soothe  a  martyr's  sadness, 
And  fresco,  in  his  troubled  sleep, 

His  prison-walls  with  gladness. 

We  know  the  world  is  rich  with  streams 

Renowned  in  song  and  story, 
Whose    music    murmurs    through    out 
dreams 

Of  human  love  and  glory  : 
We  know  that  Arno's  banks  are  fair, 

And  Rhine  has  castled  shadows, 
And,  poet-tuned,  the  Doon  and  Ayr 

Go  singing  down  their  meadows. 

But  while,  unpictured  and  unsung 

By  painter  or  by  poet, 
Our  river  waits  the  tuneful  tongue 

And  cunning  hand  to  show  it,  — 
We  only  know  the  fond  skies  lean 

Above  it,  warm  with  blessing, 
And  the  sweet  soul  of  our  Undine 

Awakes  to  our  caressing. 

No  fickle  sun-god  holds  the  flocks 

That  graze  its  shores  in  keeping  ; 
No  icy  kiss  of  Dian  mocks 

The  youth  beside  it  sleeping  : 
Our  Christian  river  loveth  most 

The  beautiful  and  human  ; 
The  heathen  streams  of  Naiads  boast, 

But  ours  of  man  and  woman. 

The  miner  in  his  cabin  hears 

The  ripple  we  are  hearing  ; 
It  whispers  soft  to  homesick  ears 

Around  the  settler's  clearing  : 
In  Sacramento's  vales  of  corn, 

Or  Santee's  bloom  of  cotton, 
Our  river  by  its  valley-born 

Was  never  yet  forgotten. 

The  drum  rolls  loud,  —  the  bugle  fills 

The  summer  air  with  clangor  ; 
The  war-storm  shakes  the  solid  hills 

Beneath  its  tread  of  anger  ; 
Young  eyes   that  last   year  smiled  in 
ours 

Now  point  the  rifle's  barrel, 
And  hands  then  stained  with  fruits  an^ 
flowers 

Bear  redder  stains  of  quarrel. 


ANDREW  RYKMAN  S  PRAYER. 


281 


But  blue  skies  smile,  and  flowers  bloom 
on, 

And  rivers  still  keep  flowing,  — 
The  dear  God  still  his  rain  and  sun 

On  good  and  ill  bestowing. 
His    pine-trees    whisper,    "Trust    and 
wait !  " 

His  flowers  are  prophesying 
That  all  we  dread  of  change  or  fall 

His  love  is  underlying. 

And  thou,  0  Mountain-born  !  —  no  more 

We  ask  the  wise  Allotter 
Than  for  the  firmness  of  thy  shore, 

The  calmness  of  thy  water, 
The  cheerful  lights  that  overlay 

Thy  rugged  slopes  with  beauty, 
To  match  our  spirits  to  our  day 

And  make  a  joy  of  duty. 


ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  PRAYER. 

ANDREW  RYKMAN  's  dead  and  gone  ; 

You  can  see  his  leaning  slate 
In  the  graveyard,  and  thereon 

Read  his  name  and  date. 

c<  Trust  is  truer  than  our  fears," 
Runs  the  legend  through  the  moss, 

"  Gain  is  not  in  added  years, 
Nor  in  death  is  loss." 

Still  the  feet  that  thither  trod, 
All  the  friendly  eyes  are  dim  ; 

Only  Nature,  now,  and  God 
Have  a  care  for  him. 

There  the  dews  of  quiet  fall, 

Singing  birds  and  soft  winds  stray ; 

Shall  the  tender  Heart  of  all 
Be  less  kind  than  they  ? 

What  he  was  and  what  he  is 
They  who  ask  may  haply  find, 

If  they  read  this  prayer  of  his 
Which  he  left  behind. 


Pardon,  Lord,  the  lips  that  dare 
Shape  in  words  a  mortal's  prayer ! 
Prayer,  that,  when  my  day  is  done, 
And  I  see  its  setting  sun, 
Shorn  and  beamless,  cold  and  dim, 
Sink  beneath  the  horizon's  rim,  — 
When  this  ball  of  rock  and  clay 
Crumbles  from  my  feet  away, 


And  the  solid  shores  of  sense 
VIelt  into  the  vague  immense, 
Father  !  I  may  come  to  Thee 
Even  with  the  beggar's  plea, 
As  the  poorest  of  Thy  poor, 
With  rny  needs,  and  nothing  more. 

Not  as  one  who  seeks  his  home 

With  a  step  assured  I  come  ; 

Still  behind  the  tread  I  hear 

3f  my  life-companion,  Fear  ; 

Still  a  shadow  deep  and  vast 

From  my  westering  feet  is  cast, 

Wavering,  doubtful,  undefined, 

Never  shapen  nor  outlined  : 

From  myself  the  fear  has  grown, 

And  the  shadow  is  my  own. 

Yet,  0  Lord,  through  all  a  sense 

Of  Thy  tender  providence 

Stays  my  failing  heart  on  Thee, 

And  confirms  the  feeble  knee  ; 

And,  at  times,  my  worn  feet  press 

Spaces  of  cool  quietness, 

Lilied  whiteness  shone  upon 

Not  by  light  of  moon  or  sun. 

Hours  there  be  of  inmost  calm, 

Broken  but  by  grateful  psalm, 

When  I  love  Thee  more  than  fear  Thee, 

And  Thy  blessed  Christ  seems  near  me,, 

With  forgiving  look,  as  when 

He  beheld  the  Magdalen. 

Well  I  know  that  all  things  move 

To  the  spheral  rhythm  of  love,  — 

That  to  Thee,  0  Lord  of  all ! 

Nothing  can  of  chance  befall  : 

Child  and  seraph,  mote  and  star, 

Well  Thou  knowest  what  we  are  t 

Through  Thy  vast  creative  plan 

Looking,  from  the  worm  to  man, 

There  is  pity  in  Thine  eyes, 

But  no  hatred  nor  surprise. 

Not  in  blind  caprice  of  will, 

Not  in  cunning  sleight  of  skill, 

Not  for  show  of  power,  was  wroughA 

Nature's  marvel  in  Thy  thought. 

Never  careless  hand  and  vain 

Smites  these  chords  of  joy  and  pftin  •. 

No  immortal  selfishness 

Plays  the  game  of  curse  and  bless ; 

Heaven  and  earth  are  witnesses 

That  Thy  glory  goodness  is. 

Not  for  sport  of  mind  and  force 

Hast  Thou  made  Thy  universe, 

But  as  atmosphere  and  zone 

Of  Thy  loving  heart  alone. 

Man,  who  walketh  in  a  show, 

Sees  before  him,  to  and  fro, 


282 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


Shadow  and  illusion  go  ; 

All  things  flow  and  fluctuate, 

Now  contract  and  now  dilate. 

In  the  welter  of  this  sea, 

Nothing  stable  is  but  Thee ; 

In  this  whirl  of  swooning  trance, 

Thou  alone  art  permanence  ; 

All  without  Thee  only  seems, 

All  beside  is  choice  of  dreams. 

Never  yet  in  darkest  mood 

Doubted  I  that  Thou  wast  good, 

Nor  mistook  my  will  for  fate, 

Pain  of  sin  for  heavenly  hate,  — 

Never  dreamed  the  gates  of  pearl 

Rise  from  out  the  burning  marl, 

Or  that  good  can  only  live 

Of  the  bad  conservative, 

And  through  counterpoise  of  hell 

Heaven  alone  be  possible. 

For  myself  alone  I  doubt  ; 

All  is  well,  I  know,  without ; 

I  alone  the  beauty  mar, 

I  alone  the  music  jar. 

Yet,  with  hands  by  evil  stained, 

And  an  ear  by  discord  pained, 

I  am  groping  for  the  keys 

Of  the  heavenly  harmonies  ; 

Still  within  my  heart  I  bear 

Love  for  all  things  good  and  fair. 

Hands  of  want  or  souls  in  pain 

Have  not  sought  ray  door  in  vain  ; 

I  have  kept  my  fealty  good 

To  the  human  brotherhood  ; 

Scarcely  have  I  asked  in  prayer 

That  which  others  might  not  share. 

I,  who  hear  with  secret  shame 

Praise  that  paineth  more  than  blame, 

Rich  alone  in  favors  lent, 

Virtuous  by  accident, 

Doubtful  where  I  fain  would  rest, 

Frailest  where  I  seem  the  best, 

Only  strong  for  lack  of  test,  — 

What  am  I,  that  I  should  press 

Special  pleas  of  selfishness, 

Coolly  mounting  into  heaven 

On  my  neighbor  unforgiven  ? 

Ne'er  to  me,  howe'er  disguised, 

Comes  a  saint  unrecognized  ; 

Never  fails  my  heart  to  greet 

Noble  deed  with  warmer  beat ; 

Halt  and  maimed,  I  own  not  less 

All  the  grace  of  holiness  ; 

Nor,  through  shame  or  self-distrust, 

Less  I  love  the  pure  and  just. 

Lord,  forgive  these  words  of  mine  : 

What  have  I  that  is  not  Thine  ?  — 

Whatsoe'er  I  fain  would  boast 


Needs  Thy  pitying  pardon  most. 

Thou,  0  Elder  Brother  !  who 

In  Thy  flesh  our  trial  knew, 

Thou,  who  hast  been  touched  by  these 

Our  most  sad  infirmities, 

Thou  alone  the  gulf  canst  span 

In  the  dual  heart  of  man, 

And  between  the  soul  and  sense 

Reconcile  all  difference, 

Change  the  dream  of  me  and  mine 

For  the  truth  of  Thee  and  Thine, 

And,  through  chaos,  doubt,  and  strife. 

Interfuse  Thy  calm  of  life. 

Haply,  thus  by  Thee  renewed, 

In  Thy  borrowed  goodness  good, 

Some  sweet  morning  yet  in  God's 

Dim,  seonian  periods, 

Joyful  I  shall  wake  to  see 

Those  I  love  who  rest  in  Thee, 

And  to  them  in  Thee  allied 

Shall  my  soul  be  satisfied. 

Scarcely  Hope  hath  shaped  for  me 
What  the  future  life  may  be. 
Other  lips  may  well  be  bold  ; 
Like  the  publican  of  old, 
I  can  only  urge  the  plea, 
"  Lord,  be  merciful  to  me  !  " 
Nothing  of  desert  I  claim, 
Unto  me  belongeth  shame. 
Not  for  me  the  crowns  of  gold, 
Palms,  and  harpings  manifold  ; 
Not  for  erring  eye  and  feet 
Jasper  wall  and  golden  street. 
What  thou  wilt,  0  Father,  give  ! 
All  is  gain  that  I  receive. 
If  my  voice  I  may  not  raise 
In  the  elders'  song  of  praise, 
If  I  may  not,  sin-deiiled, 
Claim  my  birthright  as  a  child, 
Suffer  it  that  I  to  Thee 
As  an  hired  servant  be  ; 
Let  the  lowliest  task  be  mine, 
Grateful,  so  the  work  be  Thine  ; 
Let  me  find  the  humblest  place 
In  the  shadow  of  Thy  grace  : 
Blest  to  me  were  any  spot 
Where  temptation  whispers  not. 
If  there  be  some  weaker  one, 
Give  me  strength  to  help  him  on  ; 
If  a  blinder  soul  there  be, 
Let  me  guide  him  nearer  Thee. 
Make  my  mortal  dreams  come  true 
With  the  work  I  fain  would  do  ; 
Clothe  with  life  the  weak  intent, 
Let  me  be  the  thing  I  meant ; 
Let  me  find  in  Thy  employ 


ITALY. 


283 


Peace  that  dearer  is  than  joy  ; 
Out  of  self  to  love  be  led 
And  to  heaven  acclimated, 
Until  all  things  sweet  and  good 
Seem  my  natural  habitude. 


So  we  read  the  prayer  of  him 
Who,  with  John  of  Labadie, 

Trod,  of  old,  the  oozy  rim 
Of  the  Zuyder  Zee. 

Thus  did  Andrew  Rykman  pray. 

Are  we  wiser,  better  grown, 
That  we  may  not,  in  our  day, 

Make  his  prayer  our  own  ? 

THE  CRY  OF  A  LOST   SOUL.?4 

IN  that  black  forest,  where,  when  day  is 

done, 
With    a    snake's    stillness     glides    the 

Amazon 
j)arkly  from  sunset  to  the  rising  sun, 

A  cry,  as  of  the  pained  heart  of  the  wood, 
The  long,  despairing  moan  of  solitude 
And  darkness  and  the  absence  of  all  good, 

Startles  the  traveller,  with  a  sound  so 

drear, 

So  full  of  hopeless  agony  and  fear, 
His  heart  stands  still  and  listens  like 

his  ear. 

The  guide,  as  if  he  heard  a  dead-bell  toll, 
Starts,   drops  his  oar  against  the  gun 
wale's  thole, 

Crosses  himself,  and  whispers,  "A  lost 
soul  ! " 

"No,  Se.fi  or,  n  ot  a  bird.   I  know  it  well,  — 
It  is  the  pained  soul  of  some  infidel 
Or  cursed  heretic  that  cries  from  hell. 

"Poor  fool!    with  hope  still  mocking 

his  despair, 
He  wanders,  shrieking  on  the  midnight 

air 
For  human  pity  and  for  Christian  prayer. 

"  Saints  strike  him  dumb  1    Our  Holy 

Mother  hath 
No  prayer  for  him  who,   sinning  unto 

death, 
Burns  always  in  the  furnace  of  God's 

wrath  ! " 


Thus  to  the  baptized  pagan's  cruel  lie, 
Lending  new  horror  to  that  mournful 

cry, 
The  voyager  listens,  making  no  reply. 

Dim  burns  the  boat-lamp  :  shadows 
deepen  round, 

From  giant  trees  with  snake -like  creep 
ers  wound, 

And  the  black  water  glides  without  n 
sound. 

But  in  the  traveller's  heart  a  secret  sense 
Of  nature  plastic  to  benign  intents, 
And  an  eternal  good  in  Providence, 

Lifts  to  the  starry  calm  of  heaven  his 

eyes  ; 
And  lo  !  rebuking  all  earth's  ominous 

cries, 
The  Cross  of  pardon  lights  the  tropic 

skies  ! 

"  Father  of  all !  "  he  urges  his  strong 

plea, 
"  Thou  lovest  all :  thy  erring  child  may 

be 
Lost  to  himself,  but  never  lost  to  Thee  ! 

"All  souls  are  Thine;  the  wings  of 
morning  bear 

None  from  that  Presence  which  is  every 
where, 

Nor  hell  itself  can  hide,  for  Thou  art 
there. 

"Through  sins  of  sense,  perversities  of 

will, 
Through  doubt  and  pain,  through  guilt 

and  shame  and  ill, 
Thy  pitying    eye   is   on   Thy  creature 

still. 

"Wilt  thou   not  make,  Eternal  Source 

and  Goal  ! 
In  thy  long  years,   life's  broken  circle 

whole, 
And  change  to  praise  the  cry  of  a  lost 

soul ? " 

ITALY. 

ACROSS  the  sea  I  heard  the  groans 

Of  nations  in  the  intervals 
Of  wind  and  wave.     Their  blood  and 

bones 
Cried  out  in  torture,  crushed  by  thrones, 

And  sucked  by  priestly  cannibals. 


284 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


I  dreamed  of  Freedom  slowly  gained 

By  martyr  meekness,  patience,  faith, 
And  lo  !  an  athlete  grimly  stained, 
With  corded  muscles  battle-strained, 
Shouting  it  from  the  fields  of  death  ! 

T  turn  me,  awe-struck,  from  the  sight, 

Among  the  clamoring  thousands  mute, 
I  only  know  that  God  is  right, 
And  that  the  children  of  the  light 
Shall  tread  the  darkness  under  foot. 

I  know  the  pent  fire  heaves  its  crust, 
That  sultry  skies  the  bolt  will  form 
To  smite  them  clear  ;  that  Nature  must 
The  balance  of  her  powers  adjust, 

Though  with  the  earthquake  and  the 
storm. 

God  reigns,  and  let  the  earth  rejoice ! 

I  bow  before  His  sterner  plan. 
Dumb  are  the  organs  of  my  choice  ; 
He  speaks  in  battle's  stormy  voice, 

His  praise  is  in  the  wrath  of  man ! 

Yet,  surely  as  He  lives,  the  day 

Of  peace  He  promised  shall  be  ours, 
To  fold  the  flags  of  war,  and  lay 
Its  sword  and  spear  to  rust  away, 

And  sow  its  ghastly  fields  with  flowers  ! 


THE   RIVER  PATH. 

No  bird-song  floated  down  the  hill, 
The  tangled  bank  below  was  still ; 

No  rustle  from  the  birchen  stem, 
No  ripple  from  the  water's  hem. 

The  dusk  of  twilight  round  us  grew, 
We  felt  the  falling  of  the  dew  ; 

For,  from  us,  ere  the  day  was  done, 
The  wooded  hills  shut  out  the  sun. 

But  on  the  river's  farther  side 
We  saw  the  hill-tops  glorified,  — 

A  tender  glow,  exceeding  fair, 
A  dream  of  day  without  its  glare. 

With  us  the  damp,  the  chill,  the  gloom 
With  them  the  sunset's  rosy  bloom  ; 

While  dark,  through  willowy  vistas  seen 
The  river  rolled  in  shade  between. 


From  out  the  darkness  where  we  trod. 
We  gazed  upon  those  hillb  of  God, 

Whose   light   seemed  not  of  moon  OT 

sun. 
We  spake  not,  but  our  thought  was  one. 

We  paused,  as  if  from  that  bright  shore 
Beckoned  our  dear  ones  gone  before  ; 

And  stilled  our  beating  hearts  to  hear 
The  voices  lost  to  mortal  ear  ! 

Sudden  our  pathway  turned  from  night ; 
The  hills  swung  open  to  the  light ; 

Through  their  green  gates  the  sunshine 

showed, 
A  long,  slant  splendor  downward  flowed. 

Down  glade  and  glen  and  bank  it  rolled ; 
It  bridged  the  shaded  stream  with  gold  ; 

And,  borne  on  piers  of  mist,  allied 
The  shadowy  with  the  sunlit  side  ! 

"So,"  prayed  we,  "  when  our  feet  draw- 
near 
The  river  dark,  with  mortal  fear, 

"  And  the  night  cometh  chill  with  dew, 
0  Father  !  let  thy  light  break  through  ! 

"  So  let  the  hills  of  doubt  divide, 
So  bridge  with  faith  the  sunless  tide  ! 

"  So  let  the  eyes  that  fail  on  earth 
On  thy  eternal  hills  look  forth  ; 

"  And  in  thy  beckoning  angels  know 
The  dear  ones  whom  we  loved  below  !  " 


A  MEMORIAL. 

M.    A.    C. 

0,  THICKER,  deeper,  darker  growing, 
The  solemn  vista  to  the  tomb 

Must  know  henceforth  another  shadow, 
And  give  another  cypress  room. 

In  love  surpassing  that  of  brothers, 
We  walked,  0  friend,  from  childhood's 
day  ; 

And,  looking  back  o'er  fifty  summers, 
Our  footprints  track  a  common  way. 


HYMN. 


285 


One  in  our  faith,  and  one  our  longing 
To  make  th  e  world  within  our  reach 

Somewhat  the  better  for  our  living, 
And  gladder  for  our  human  speech. 

Thou  heard'st  with  me  the  far-off  voices, 
The  old  beguiling  song  of  fame, 

But  life  to  thee  was  warm  and  present, 
And  love  was  better  than  a  name. 

To  homely  joys  and  loves  and  friendships 
Thy  genial  nature  fondly  clung  ; 

And  so  the  shadow  on  the  dial 

Ran  back  and  left  thee  always  young. 

And  who    could  blame     the  generous 

weakness 

Which,  only  to  thyself  unjust, 
So  overprized  the  worth  of  others, 

And  dwarfed  thy  own  with  self-dis 
trust  ? 

All  hearts  grew  warmer  in  the  presence 
Of  one  who,  seeking  not  his  own, 

Gave  freely  for  the  love  of  giving, 
Nor  reaped  for  self  the  harvest  sown. 

Thy  greeting  smile  was  pledge  and  prel 
ude 

Of  generous  deeds  and  kindly  words  ; 
In  thy  large  heart  were  fair  guest-cham 
bers, 
Open  to  sunrise  and  the  birds  ! 

The  task  was  thine  to  mould  and  fashion 
Life's  plastic  newness  into  grace  : 

To  make  the  boyish  heart  heroic, 
And  light  with  thought  the  maiden's 
face. 

O'er  all  the  land,  in  town  and  prairie, 
With    bended    heads    of    mourning, 
stand 

The  living  forms  that  owe  their  beauty 
And  fitness  to  thy  shaping  hand. 

Thy  call  has  come  in  ripened  manhood, 
The  noonday  calm  of  heart  and  mind, 

While  I,  who  dreamed  of  thy  remaining 
To  mourn  me,  linger  still  behind  : 

Live  on,  to  own,  with  self-upbraiding, 
A  debt  of  love  still  due  from  me,  — 

The  vain  remembrance  of  occasions, 
Forever  lost,  of  serving  thee. 

It  was  not  mine  among  thy  kindred 
To  join  the  silent  funeral  prayers, 


But  all  that  long  sad  day  of  summer 
My  tears  of  mourning  dropped  witfc 
theirs. 

All  day  the  sea-waves  sobbed  with  sor. 
row, 

The  birds  forgot  their  merry  trills  : 
All  day  I  heard  the  pines  lamenting 

With  thine  upon  thy  homestead  hilk 

Green  be  those  hillside  pines  forever, 
And  green  the  meadowy  lowlands  be, 

And  green  the  old  memorial  beeches, 
Name-carven  in  the  woods  of  Lee  ! 

Still  let  them  greet  thy  life  companions 
Who  thither  turn  their  pilgrim  feet, 

In  every  mossy  line  recalling 
A  tender  memory  sadly  sweet. 

0  friend  !  if  thought  and  sense  avail  not 
To  know  thee  henceforth  as  thou  art, 

That  all  is  well  with  thee  forever 
I  trust  the  instincts  of  my  heart. 

Thine  be  the  quiet  habitations, 

Thine  the  green   pastures,    blossom- 
sown, 

And  smiles  of  saintly  recognition, 
As  sweet  and  tender  as  thy  own. 

Thou   com'st  not  from  the  hush  and 
shadow 

To  meet  us,  but  to  thee  we  come  ; 
With  thee  we  never  can  be  strangers, 

And  where  thou  art  must  still  be  home. 


HYMN, 

SUNG     AT     CHRISTMAS     BY     THE   SCHOt> 

ARS  OF  ST.  HELENA'S  ISLAND,  s.  c. 

0  NONE  in  all  the  world  before 

Were  ever  glad  as  we  J 
We  're  free  on  Carolina's  shore, 

We  're  all  at  home  and  free. 

Thou  Friend  and  Helper  of  the  poor, 

Who  suffered  for  our  sake, 
To  open  every  prison  door, 

And  every  yoke  to  break  ! 

Bend  low  thy  pitying  face  and  mild, 

And  help  us  sing  and  pray ; 
The  hand  that  blessed  the  little  child, 

Upon  our  foreheads  lay. 


286 


SNOW-BOUND. 


We  hear  no  more  the  driver's  horn, 
No  more  the  whip  we  fear, 

This  holy  day  that  saw  thee  born 
Was  never  half  so  dear. 

The  very  oaks  are  greener  clad, 
The  waters  brighter  smile  ; 

0  never  shone  a  day  so  glad 
OP  iweet  St.  Helen's  Isle. 


We  praise  thee  in  our  songs  to-day, 

To  thee  in  prayer  we  call, 
Make  swift  the  feet  and  straight  the  way 

Of  freedom  unto  all. 

Come  once  again,  0  blessed  Lord  ! 

Come  walking  on  the  sea  ! 
And  let  the  mainlands  hear  the  word 

That  sets  the  islands  free  ! 


SNOW-BOUND. 

A  WINTER  IDYL. 


TO    THE   MEMORY 

OP 

THE  HOUSEHOLD  IT  DESCRIBES, 

THIS  POEM  IS  DEDICATED  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


"  As  the  Spirits  of  Darkness  be  stronger  in  the 
-lark,  so  Good  Spirits  which  be  Angels  of  Light 
are  augmented  not  only  by  the  Divine  light  of 
the  Sun ,  but  also  by  our  common  Wood  Fire : 
and  as  the  Celestial  Fire  drives  away  dark  spirits, 
so  also  this  our  Fire  of  Wood  doth  the  same." 
—  COR.  AGRLPPA,  Occult  Philosophy, Book.!,  ch.  v. 

"  Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow  ;  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight ;  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river  and  the  heav 
en 

And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's 

feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates 

sit 

Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
1     In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm." 

EMERSON. 

THE  sun  that  brief  December  day 
Rose  cheerless  over  hills  of  gray, 
And,  darkly  circled,  gave  at  noon 
A  sadder  light  than  waning  moon. 
Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening  sky 
Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 
A  portent  seeming  less  than  threat, 
It  sunk  from  sight  before  it  set. 


A  chill  no  coat,  however  stout, 

Of  homespun  stuff  could  quite  shut  out, 

A  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold, 

That  checked,  mid -vein,  the  circling 
race 

Of  life-blood  in  the  sharpened  face, 
The  coming  of  the  snow-storm  told. 
The  wind  blew  east ;  we  heard  the  roar 
Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore, 
And  felt  the  strong  pulse  throbbing  there 
Beat  with  low  rhythm  our  inland  air. 

Meanwhile  wre  did  our  nightly  chores, — 
Brought  in  the  wood  from  out  of  doors, 
Littered  the  stalls,  and  from  the  mows 
Raked   down   the   herd's-grass    for  the 

cows  : 

Heard  the  horse  whinnying  for  his  corn  ; 
And,  sharply  clashing  horn  on  horn, 
Impatient  down  the  stanchion  rows 
The  cattle  shake  their  walnut  bows  ; 
While,  peering  from  his  early  perch 
Upon  the  scaffold's  pole  of  birch, 
The  cock  his  crested  helmet  bent 
And  down  his  querulous  challenge  sent 


"SNOW-BOUND."'     Page  286. 


SNOW-BOUND. 


287 


Unwarmed  by  any  sunset  light 

The  gray  day  darkened  into  night, 

A  night  made  hoary  with  the  swarm, 

And  whirl-dance  of  the  blinding  storm, 

As  zigzag  wavering  to  and  fro 

Crossed  and  recrossed  the  winged  snow  : 

And  ere  the  early  bedtime  came 

The  white  drift  piled  the  window-frame, 

And  through  the  glass  the  clothes-line 

posts 
Looked  in  like  tall  and  sheeted  ghosts. 

So  all  night  long  the  storm  roared  on  : 

The  morning  broke  without  a  sun  ; 

In  tiny  spherule  traced  with  lines 

Of  Nature's  geometric  signs, 

In  starry  flake,  and  pellicle, 

All  day  the  hoary  meteor  fell ; 

And,  when  the  second  morning  shone, 

We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown, 

On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own. 

Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent 

The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament, 

No  cloud  above,  no  ea"rth  below,  — 

A  universe  of  sky  and  snow  ! 

The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 

Took  marvellous  shapes  ;  strange  domes 

and  towers 

Rose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib  stood, 
Or  garden-wall,  or  belt  of  wood  ; 
A  smooth  white  mound  the  brush-pile 

showed, 

A  fenceless  drift  what  once  was  road  ; 
The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat 
With  loose-flung  coat  and  high  cocked 

hat  ; 

The  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof ; 
And  even  the  long  sweep,  high  aloof, 
In  its  slant  splendor,  seemed  to  tell 
Of  Pisa's  leaning  miracle. 

A  prompt,  decisive  man,  no  breath 
Our  father  wasted  :   "  Boys,  a  path  !  " 
Well  pleased,  (for  when  did  farmer  boy 
Count  such  a  summons  less  than  joy  ?) 
Our  buskins  on  our  feet  we  drew  ; 
,  With  mittened  hands,  and  caps  drawn 

low, 
To  guard  our  necks  and   ears  from 

snow, 

We  cut  the  solid  whiteness  through. 
And,  where  the  drift  was  deepest,  made 
A  tunnel  walled  and  overlaid 
With  dazzling  crystal :  we  had  read 
Of  rare  Aladdin's  wondrous  cave, 
And  to  our  own  his  name  we  gave, 
With  many  a  wish  the  luck  were  ours 


To  test  his  lamp's  supernal  powers. 
We  reached  the  barn  with  merry  din, 
And  roused  the  prisoned  brutes  within. 
The  old  horse  thrust  his  long  head  out, 
And  grave  with  wonder  gazed  about  ; 
The  cock  his  lusty  greeting  said, 
And  forth  his  speckled  harem  led  ; 
The  oxen  lashed  their  tails,  and  hooked, 
And  mild  reproach  of  hunger  looked  ; 
The  horned  patriarch  of  the  sheep, 
Like  Egypt's  Amun  roused  from  sleep, 
Shook  his  sage  head  with  gesture  mute, 
And  emphasized  with  stamp  of  foot. 

All  day  the  gusty  north-wind  bore 
The  loosening  drift  its  breath  before  ; 
Low  circling  round  its  southern  zone, 
The    sun    through   dazzling  snow-mist 

shone. 

No  church-bell  lent  its  Christian  tone 
To  the  savage  air,  no  social  smoke 
Curled  over  woods  of  snow-hung  oak. 
A  solitude  made  more  intense 
By  dreary-voiced  elements, 
The  shrieking  of  the  mindless  wind, 
The  moaning  tree-boughs  swaying  blind, 
And  on  the  glass  the  unmeaning  beat 
Of  ghostly  finger-tips  of  sleet. 
Beyond  the  circle  of  our  hearth 
No  welcome  sound  of  toil  or  mirth 
Unbound  the  spell,  and  testified 
Of  human  life  and  thought  outside. 
We  minded  that  the  sharpest  ear 
The  buried  brooklet  could  not  hear, 
The  music  of  whose  liquid  lip 
Had  been  to  us  companionship, 
And,  in  our  lonely  life,  had  grown 
To  have  an  almost  human  tone. 

As  night  drew  on,  and,  from  the  crest 
Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  the  west, 
The  sun,  a  snow-blown  traveller,  sank 
From  sight  beneath  the  smothering 

bank, 

We  piled,  with  care,  our  nightly  stack 
Of  wood  against  the  chimney-back,  — 
The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and  thick, 
And  on  its  top  the  stout  back -stick  ; 
The  knotty  forestick  laid  apart, 
And  filled  between  with  curious  art 
The  ragged  brush  ;  then,  hovering  near, 
We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  appear, 
Heard  the    sharp   crackle,   caught   the 

gleam 

On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam, 
Until  the  old,  rude-furnished  room 
Burst,  flower-like,  into  rosy  bloom ; 


288 


SNOW-BOUND. 


While  radiant  with  a  mimic  flame 
Outside  the  sparkling  drift  became, 
And  through  the  bare-boughed  lilac-tree 
Our  own   warm  hearth  seemed  blazing 

free. 

The  crane  and  pendent  trammels  showed, 
The  Turks'  heads  on  the  andirons  glowed ; 
While  childish  fancy,  prompt  to  tell 
The  meaning  of  the  miracle, 
Whispered  the  old  rhyme  :   "  Under  the 

tree, 

When  fire  outdoors  burns  merrily, 
There  the  witches  are  making  tea." 

The  moon  above  the  eastern  wood 
Shone  at  its  full ;  the  hill -range  stood 
Transfigured  in  the  silver  flood, 
Its  blown  snows  flashing  cold  and  keen, 
Dead    white,    save    where   some    sharp 

ravine 

Took  shadow,  or  the  sombre  green 
Of  hemlocks  turned  to  pitchy  black 
Against  the  whiteness  at  their  back. 
For  such  a  world  and  such  a  night 
Most  fitting  that  unwarming  light, 
Which  only  seemed  where'er  it  fell 
To  make  the  coldness  visible. 

Shut  in  from  all  the  world  without, 
We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth  about, 
Content  to  let  the  north-wind  roar 
In  baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 
While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 
The  frost-line  back  with  tropic  heat ; 
And  ever,  when  a  louder  blast 
Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed, 
The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 
The  great  throat  of  the  chimney  laughed, 
The  house-dog  on  his  paws  outspread 
Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head, 
The  cat's  dark  silhouette  on  the  Avail 
A  couchant  tiger's  seemed  to  fall ; 
And,  for  the  winter  fireside  meet, 
Between  the  andirons'  straddling  feet, 
The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow, 
The  apples  sputtered  in  a  row, 
And,  close  et  hand,  the  basket  stood 
With  nuts  from  brown  October's  wood. 

What  matter  how  the  night  behaved  ? 
"What  matter  how  the  north- wind  raved? 
Blow  high,  blow  low,  not  all  its  snow 
Could   quench   our   hearth-fire's   ruddy 

glow. 
0  Time   and   Change  !  —  with  hair  as 

gray 
As  was  my  sire's  that  winter  day, 


How  strange  it  seems,  with  so  much 

gone 

Of  life  and  love,  to  still  live  on  1 
Ah,  brother  !  only  I  and  thou 
Are  left  of  all  that  circle  now,  — 
The  dear  home  faces  whereupon 
That  fitful  firelight  paled  and  shone. 
Henceforward,  listen  as  we  will, 
The  voices  of  that  hearth  are  still ; 
Look  where  we  may,  the  wide  earth  o'er 
Those  lighted  faces  smile  no  more. 
We  tread  the  paths  their  feet  have  worn. 

We  sit  beneath  their  orchard  trees, 

We  hear,  like  them,  the  hum  of  bees 
And  rustle  of  the  bladed  corn  ; 
We  turn  the  pages  that  they  read, 

Their  written  words  we  linger  o'er, 
But  in  the  sun  they  cast  no  shade, 
No  voice  is  heard,  no  sign  is  made, 

No  step  is  on  the  conscious  floor  ! 
Yet  Love  will   dream,   and  Faith  will 

trust, 

(Since  He  who  knows  our  need  is  just,) 
That    somehow,    somewhere,    meet    we 

must. 

Alas  for  him  who  never  sees 
The    stars   shine   through   his   cypress- 
trees  ! 

Who,  hopeless,  lays  his  dead  away, 
Nor  looks  to  see  the  breaking  day 
Across  the  mournful  marbles  play  ! 
Who  hath  not  learned,  in  hours  of  faith, 

The  truth  to  flesh  and  sense  unknown, 
That  Life  is  ever  lord  of  Death, 

And  Love  can  never  lose  its  own  ! 

We  sped  the  time  with  stories  old, 
Wrought  puzzles  out,  and  riddles  told, 
Or  stammered  from  our  school-book  lore 
"  The  Chief  of  Gambia's  golden  shore." 
How  often  since,  when  all  the  land 
Was  clay  in  Slavery's  shaping  hand, 
As  if  a  trumpet  called,  I  've  heard 
Dame  Mercy  Warren's  rousing  word  : 
' '  Does  not  the  voice  of  reason  cry, 

Claim  the  first  right  which  Nature  gave, 
From  tJie  red  scourge  of  bondage  fiy, 

Nor  deign  to  live  a  burdened  slave  !  " 
Our  father  rode  again  his  ride 
On  Memphremagog's  wooded  side  ; 
Sat  down  again  to  moose  and  samp 
In  trapper's  hut  and  Indian  camp  ; 
Lived  o'er  the  old  idyllic  ease 
Beneath  St.  Frai^ois'  hemlock-trees  j 
Again  for  him  the  moonlight  shone 
On  Norman  cap  and  bodiced  zone  ,• 
Again  he  heard  the  violin  pl/*y 


SNOW-BOUND. 


28? 


Which  led  the  village  dance  away, 
And  mingled  in  its  merry  whirl 
The  grandam  and  the  laughing  girl. 
Or,  nearer  home,  our  steps  he  led 
Where  Salisbury's  level  marshes  spread 

Mile-wide  as  flies  the  laden  bee  ; 
Where  merry  mowers,  hale  and  strong, 
Swept,    scythe  on  scythe,    their  swaths 
along 

The  low  green  prairies  of  the  sea. 
We  shared  the  fishing  off  Boar's  Head, 

And  round  the  rocky  Isles  of  Shoals 

The    hake-broil    on     the    drift-wood 

coals  ; 

The  chowder  on  the  sand-beach  made, 
Dipped  by  the  hungry,  steaming  hot, 
With    spoons  of    clam-shell  from    the 

pot. 

We  heard  the  tales  of  witchcraft  old, 
And  dream  and  sign  and  marvel  told 
To  sleepy  listeners  as  they  lay 
Stretched  idly  on  the  salted  hay, 
Adrift  along  the  winding  shores, 
When  favoring  breezes  deigned  to  blow 
The  square  sail  of  the  gundelow 
And  idle  lay  the  useless  oars. 

Our  mother,  while  she  turned  her  wheel 
Or  run  the  new-knit  stocking-heel, 
Told  how  the  Indian  hordes  came  down 
At  midnight  on  Cochecho  town, 
And  how  her  own  great-uncle  bore 
His  cruel  scalp-mark  to  fourscore. 
Recalling,  in  her  fitting  phrase, 
So  rich  and  picturesque  and  free, 
(The  common  unrhymed  poetry 
Of  simple  life  and  country  ways,) 
The  story  of  her  early  days,  — 
She  made  us  welcome  to  her  home  ; 
Old  hearths  grew  wide  to  give  us  room  ; 
We  stole  with  her  a  frightened  look 
At  the  gray  wizard's  conjuring-book, 
The  fame  whereof  went  far  and  wide 
Through  all  the  simple  country  side  ; 
We  heard  the  hawks  at  twilight  play, 
The  boat-horn  on  Piscataqua, 
The  loon's  weird  laughter  far  away  ; 
We  fished  her  little  trout-brook,  knew 
What  flowers  in  wood  and  meadow  grew, 
What  sunny  hillsides  autumn-brown 
6he  climbed  to   shake   the    ripe   nuts 

down, 

Saw  where  in  sheltered  cove  and  bay 
The    ducks'   black   squadron    anchored 

lay, 

And  heard  the  wild-geese  calling  loud 
Beneath  the  gray  November  cloud. 
19 


/  Then,  haply,  with  a  look  more  grave, 
And  soberer  tone,  some  tale  she  gave 
From  painful  Sewell's  ancient  tome, 
Beloved  in  every  Quaker  home, 
Of  faith  fire- winged  by  martyrdom, 
Or  Chalkley's  Journal,  old  and  quaint,  — 
Gentlest  of  skippers,  rare  sea-saint  !  — 
Who,  when  the  dreary  calms  prevailed, 
And  water-butt  and  bread-cask  failed, 
And  cruel,  hungry  eyes  pursued 
His  portly  presence  mad  for  food, 
With  dark  hints  muttered  under  breath 
Of  casting  lots  for  life  or  death, 
Offered,  if  Heaven  withheld  supplies, 
To  be  himself  the  sacrifice. 
Then,  suddenly,  as  if  to  save 
The  good  man  from  his  living  grave, 
A  ripple  on  the  water  grew, 
A  school  of  porpoise  flashed  in  view. 
"  Take,  eat,"  he  said,  "  and  be  content} 
These  fishes  in  my  stead  are  sent 
By  Him  who  gave  the  tangled  ram 
To  spare  the  child  of  Abraham." 

Our  uncle,  innocent  of  books, 

Was  rich  in  lore  of  fields  and  brooks, 

The  ancient  teachers  never  dumb 

Of  Nature's  unhoused  lyceum. 

In  moons  and  tides  and  weather  wise, 

He  read  the  clouds  as  prophecies, 

And  foul  or  fair  could  well  divine, 

By  many  an  occult  hint  and  sign, 

Holding  the  cunning-warded  keys 

To  all  the  woodcraft  mysteries ; 

Himself  to  Nature's  heart  so  near 

That  all  her  voices  in  his  ear 

Of  beast  or  bird  had  meanings  clear, 

Like  Apollonius  of  old, 

Who  knew  the  tales  the  sparrows  told, 

Or  Hermes  who  interpreted 

What  the  sage  cranes  of  Nilus  said  ; 

A  simple,  guileless,  childlike  man, 

Content  to  live  where  life  began ; 

Strong  only  on  his  native  grounds, 

The  little  world  of  sights  and  sounds 

Whose  girdle  was  the  parish  bounds, 

Whereof  his  fondly  partial  pride 

The  common  features  magnified, 

As  Surrey  hills  to  mountains  grew 

In  White  of  Selborne's  loving  view,  — 

He  told  how  teal  and  loon  he  shot, 

And  how  the  eagle's  eggs  he  got, 

The  feats  on  pond  and  river  clone, 

The  prodigies  of  rod  and  gun ; 

Till,  warming  with  the  tales  he  told, 

Forgotten  was  the  outside  cold, 

The  bitter  wind  unheeded  blew, 


290 


SNOW-BOUND. 


From  ripening  corn  the  pigeons  flew, 
The  partridge  drummed  i'  the  wood,  the 

mink 

Went  fishing  down  the  river-brink. 
In  fields  with  bean  or  clover  gay, 
The  woodchuck,  like  a  hermit  gray, 

Peered  from  the  doorway  of  his  cell  j 
The  muskrat  plied  the  mason's  trade, 
And  tier  by  tier  his  mud- walls  laid  ; 
And  from  the  shagbark  overhead 

The  grizzled  squirrel  dropped  his  shell. 

Next,   the  dear   aunt,   whose   smile   of 

cheer 

And  voice  in  dreams  I  see  and  hear,  — 
The  sweetest  woman  ever  Fate 
Perverse  denied  a  household  mate, 
Who,  lonely,  homeless,  not  the  less 
Found  peace  in  love's  unselfishness, 
And  welcome  wheresoe'er  she  went, 
A  cairn  and  gracious  element, 
Whose  presence  seemed   the  sweet  in 
come 

And  womanly  atmosphere  of  home,  — 
Called  iip  her  girlhood  memories, 
The  huskings  and  the  apple-bees, 
The  sleigh-rides  and  the  summer  sails, 
Weaving  through  all  the  poor  details 
And  homespun  warp  of  circumstance 
A  golden  woof- thread  of  romance. 
For  well  she  kept  her  genial  mood 
And  simple  faith  of  maidenhood  ; 
Before  her  still  a  cloud-land  lay, 
The  mirage  loomed  across  her  way  ; 
The  morning  dew,  that  dries  so  soon 
With  others,  glistened  at  her  noon  ; 
Through  years  of  toil  and  soil  and  care, 
From  glossy  tress  to  thin  gray  hair, 
All  unprofaned  she  held  apart 
The  virgin  fancies  of  the.  heart. 
Be  shame  to  him  of  woman  born 
Who  hath  for  such  but  thought  of  scorn. 

There,  too,  our  elder  sister  plied 
Her  evening  task  the  stand  beside  ; 
A  full,  rich  nature,  free  to  trust, 
Truthful  and  almost  sternly  just, 
Impulsive,  earnest,  prompt  to  act, 
And    make    her    generous    thought    a 

fact, 

Keeping  with  many  a  light  disguise 
The  secret  of  self-sacrifice. 
0  heart  sore-tried  !  thou  hast  the  best 
That  Heaven  itself  could  give  thee,  — 

rest, 

Rest  from  all  bitter  thoughts  and  things  ! 
How  many  a  poor  one's  blessing  went 


With  thee    beneath    the   low  green 

tent 
Whose  curtain  never  outward  swings  ! 

As  one  who  held  herself  a  part 
Of  all  she  saw,  and  let  her  heart 

Against  the  household  bosom  lean. 
Upon  the  motley-braided  mat 
Our  youngest  and  our  dearest  sat, 
Lifting  her  large,  sweet,  asking  eyes, 

Now  bathed  within  the  fadeless  green 
And  holy  peace  of  Paradise. 
0,  looking  from  some  heavenly  hill, 

Or  from  the  shade  of  saintly  palms, 

Or  silver  reach  of  river  calms, 
Do  those  large  eyes  behold  me  still  ? 
With  me  one  little  year  ago  :  — 
The  chill  weight  of  the  winter  snow 

For  months  upon  her  grave  has  lain  ; 
And   now,    when   summer   south-winds 
blow 

And  brier  and  harebell  bloom  again, 
I  tread  the  pleasant  paths  we  trod, 
I  see  the  violet-sprinkled  sod 
Whereon  she  leaned,  too  frail  and  weak 
The  hillside  flowers  she  loved  to  seek, 
Yet  following  me  where'er  1  went 
With  dai'k  eyes  full  of  love's  content. 
The  birds  are  glad  ;  the  brier-rose  fills 
The  air  with  sweetness  ;  all  the  hills 
Stretch     green     to     June's     unclouded 

sky; 

But  still  I  wait  with  ear  and  eye 
For  something  gone  which   should   be 

nigh, 

A  loss  in  all  familiar  things, 
In  flower  that  blooms,   and   bird  that 

sings. 
And  yet,  dear  heart !  remembering  thee, 

Am  I  not  richer  than  of  old  ? 
Safe  in  thy  immortality, 

What  change  can  reach  the  wealth  1 
hold  ? 

What  chance  can  mar  the  pearl  and 

gold 

Thy  love  hath  left  in  trust  with  me  ? 
And  while  in  life's  late  afternoon, 

Where   cool    and    long   the   shadows 

grow, 
I  walk  to  meet  the  night  that  soon 

Shall  shape  and  shadow  overflow, 
I  cannot  feel  that  thou  art  far, 
Since  near  at  need  the  angels  are  ; 
And  when  the  sunset  gates  unbar, 

Shall  I  not  see  thee  waiting  stand, 
And,  white  against  the  evening  star, 

The  welcome  of  thy  beckoning  hand  J 


SNOW-BOUND. 


291 


Brisk  *delder  of  the  birch  and  rule, 
The  master  of  the  district  school 
Held  at  the  fire  his  favored  place, 
Its  warm  glow  lit  a  laughing  face 
Fresh-hued  and  fair,  where  scarce  ap 
peared 

The  uncertain  prophecy  of  beard. 
He  teased  the  mitten -blinded  cat, 
Played  cross-pins  on  my  uncle's  hat, 
Sang  songs,  and  told  us  what  befalls 
In  classic  Dartmouth's  college  halls. 
Born  the  wild  Northern  hills  among, 
From  whence  his  yeoman  father  wrung 
By  patient  toil  subsistence  scant, 
Not  competence  and  yet  not  want, 
He  early  gained  the  power  to  pay 
His  cheerful,  self-reliant  way  ; 
Could  doff  at  ease  his  scholar's  gown 
To  peddle  wares  frpm  town  to  town  ; 
Or  through  the  long  vacation's  reach 
In  lonely  lowland  districts  teach, 
Where  all  the  droll  experience  found 
At  stranger  hearths  in  boarding  round, 
The  moonlit  skater's  keen  delight, 
The   sleigh -drive    through    the   frosty 

night, 

The  rustic  party,  with  its  rough 
Accompaniment  of  blind-man's-buff, 
And  whirling  plate,  and  forfeits  paid, 
His  winter  task  a  pastime  made. 
Happy  the  snow-locked  homes  wherein 
He  tuned  his  merry  violin, 
Or  played  the  athlete  in  the  barn, 
Or  held  the  good  dame's  winding-yarn, 
Or  mirth-provoking  versions  told 
Of  classic  legends  rare  and  old, 
Wherein  the  scenes  of  Greece  and  Rome 
Had  all  the  commonplace  of  home, 
And  little  seemed  at  best  the  odds 
'Twixt  Yankee  pedlers  and  old  gods  ; 
Where  Pindus-born  Araxes  took 
The  guise  of  any  grist-mill  brook, 
And  dread  Olympus  at  his  will 
Became  a  huckleberry  hill, 

A  careless  boy  that  night  he  seemed  ; 

But  at  his  desk  he  had  the  look 
And  air  of  one  who  wisely  schemed, 
And  hostage  from  the  future  took 
In  trained  thought  and  lore  of  book. 
Large -brained,  clear-eyed,  —  of  such  as 

he 

Shall  Freedom's  young  apostles  be, 
Who,  following  in  War's  bloody  trail, 
Shall  every  lingering  wrong  assail ; 
All  chains  from  limb  and  spirit  strike,     j 
Uplift  the  black  and  white  alike  ; 


Scatter  before  their  swift  advance 
The  darkness  and  the  ignorance, 
The  pride,  the  lust,  the  squalid  sloth, 
Which    nurtured    Treason's  monstrous 

growth, 

Made  murder  pastime,  and  the  hell 
Of  prison-torture  possible  ; 
The  cruel  lie  of  caste  refute, 
Old  forms  remould,  and  substitute 
For  Slavery's  lash  the  freeman's  will, 
For  blind  routine,  wise-handed  skill ; 
A  school-house  plant  on  every  hill, 
Stretching  in  radiate  nerve-lines  thence 
The  quick  wires  of  intelligence  ; 
Till  North  and  South  together  brought 
Shall  own  the  same  electric  thought, 
In  peace  a  common  nag  salute, 
And,  side  by  side  in  labor's  free 
And  unresentful  rivalry, 
Harvest  the  fields  wherein  they  fought. 

Another  guest  that  winter  night 
Flashed    back  from   lustrous  eyes  the 

light. 

Unmarked  by  time,  and  yet  not  young, 
The  honeyed  music  of  her  tongue 
And  words  of  meekness  scarcely  told 
A  nature  passionate  and  bold, 
Strong,  self-concentred,  spurning  guide, 
Its  milder  features  dwarfed  beside 
Her  unbent  will's  majestic  pride. 
She  sat  among  us,  at  the  best, 
A  not  unfeared,  half- welcome  guest, 
Rebuking  with  her  cultured  phrase 
Our  homeliness  of  words  and  ways. 
A  certain  pard-like,  treacherous  grace 

Swayed  the  lithe  limbs  and  dropped 
the  lash, 

Lent  the  white  teeth  their  dazzling 
flash  ; 

And  under    low  brows,    black   with 
night, 

Rayed  out  at  times  a  dangerous  light ; 
The  sharp  heat-lightnings  of  her  face 
Presaging  ill  to  him  whom  Fate 
Condemned  to  share  her  love  or  hate. 
A  woman  tropical,  intense 
In  thought  and  act,  in  soul  and  sense, 
She  blended  in  a  like  degree 
The  vixen  and  the  devotee, 
Revealing  with  each  freak  or  feint 

The  temper  of  Petruchio's  Kate, 
The  raptures  of  Siena's  saint. 
Her  tapering  hand  and  rounded  wrist 
Had  facile  power  to  form  a  fist ; 
The  warm,  dark  languish  of  her  eyes 
Was  never  safe  from  wrath's  surprise. 


292 


SNOW-BOUND. 


Rrows  saintly  calm  and  lips  devout 
Knew  every  change  of  scowl  and  pout ; 
And   the  sveet  voice   had   notes   more 

high 

And  shrill  for  social  battle-cry. 
Since  then  what  old  cathedral  town 
Has  missed  her  pilgrim  staff  and  gown, 
What  convent-gate  has  held  its  lock 
Against  the  challenge  of  her  knock  ! 
Through  Smyrna's  plague-hushed  thor 
oughfares, 

Up  sea- set  Malta's  rocky  stairs, 
Gray  olive  slopes  of  hills  that  hem 
Thy  tombs  and  shrines,  Jerusalem, 
Or  startling  on  her  desert  throne 
The  crazy  Queen  of  Lebanon 
With  claims  fantastic  as  her  own, 
Her  tireless  feet  have  held  their  way ; 
And  still,  unrestful,  bowed,  and  gray, 
She  watches  under  Eastern  skies, 

With   hope  each  day  renewed    and 

fresh, 

The  Lord's  quick  coming  in  the  flesh, 
Whereof  she  dreams  and  prophesies  ! 

Where'er  her  troubled  path  may  be, 

The  Lord's  sweet  pity  with  her  go  ! 
The  outward  wayward  life  we  see, 

The  hidden  springs  we  may  not  know. 
Nor  is  it  given  us  to  discern 

What  threads  the  fatal  sisters  spun, 

Through   what    ancestral    years    has 

run 

The  sorrow  with  the  woman  born, 
What  forged  her  cruel  chain  of  moods, 
What  set  her  feet  in  solitudes, 

And  held  the  love  within  her  mute, 
What  mingled  madness  in  the  blood, 

A  life-long  discord  and  annoy, 

Water  of  tears  with  oil  of  joy, 
And  hid  within  the  folded  bud 

Perversities  of  flower  and  fruit. 
It  is  not  ours  to  separate 
The  tangled  skein  of  will  and  fate, 
To  show  what  metes  and  bounds  should 

stand 

Vpon  the  soul's  debatable  land, 
Arid  between  choice  and  Providence 
Divide  the  circle  of  events  ; 

But  He  who  knows  our  frame  is  just, 
Merciful  and  compassionate, 
And  full  of  sweet  assurances 
And  hope  for  all  the  language  is, 

That  He  remembereth  we  are  dust ! 

At  last  the  great  logs,  crumbling  low, 
Sent  out  a  dull  and  duller  glow, 


The  bull's-eye  watch  that  hung  in  view, 
Ticking  its  weary  circuit  through, 
Pointed  with  mutely  warning  sign 
Its  black  hand  to  the  hour  of  nine. 
That  sign  the  pleasant  circle  broke  : 
My  uncle  ceased  his  pipe  to  smoke, 
Knocked  from  its  bowl  the  refuse  gray,, 
And  laid  it  tenderly  away, 
Then  roused  himself  to  safely  cover 
The  dull  red  brands  with  ashes  over. 
And  while,  with  care,  our  mother  laid 
The  work  aside,  her  steps  she  stayed 
One  moment,  seeking  to  express 
Her  grateful  sense  of  happiness 
For    food     and    shelter,    warmth    and 

health, 
And    love's    contentment    more    than 

wealth, 

With  simple  wishes  (not  the  weak, 
Vain  prayers  which  no  fulfilment  seek, 
But  such  as  warm  the  generous  heart, 
O'er-prompt  to  do  with  Heaven  its  part) 
That  none  might  lack,  that  bitter  night, 
For  bread    and   clothing,   warmth   and 

light. 

Within  our  beds  awhile  we  heard 
The  wind  that  round  the  gables  roared, 
With  now  and  then  a  ruder  shock, 
Which  made  our  very  bedsteads  rock. 
We  heard  the  loosened  clapboards  tost, 
The  board-nails  snapping  in  the  frost ; 
And   on    us,   through    the    unplastered 

Avail, 

Felt  the  light  sifted  snow-flakes  fall. 
But  sleep  stole  on,  as  sleep  will  do 
When  hearts  are  light  and  life  is  new  ; 
Faint  and  more  faint  the  murmurs  grew, 
Till  in  the  summer-land  of  dreams 
They  softened  to  the  sound  of  streams, 
Low  stir  of  leaves,  and  dip  of  oars, 
And  lapsing  waves  on  quiet  shores. 

Next  morn  we  wakened  with  the  shout 
Of  merry  voices  high  and  clear  ; 
And  saw  the  teamsters  drawing  near 
To  break  the  drifted  highways  out. 
Down  the  long  hillside  treading  slow 
We  saw  the  half-buried  oxen  go, 
Shaking  the  snow  from  heads  uptost, 
Their  straining  nostrils  white  with  frost. 
Before  our  door  the  straggling  train 
Drew  up,  an  added  team  to  gain. 
The  elders  threshed  their  hands  a-cold, 

Passed,    with    the    cider-mug,    their 
jokes 

From  lip  to  lip  ;  the  younger  folks 


SNOW-BOUND. 


293 


Down  the  loose  snow-banks,  wrestling, 

rolled, 

then  toiled  again  the  cavalcade 
O'er  windy  hill,  through  clogged  ra 
vine, 

And  woodland  paths  that  wound  be 
tween 

Low    drooping     pine  -  boughs     winter- 
weighed. 

From  every  barn  a  team  afoot, 
At  every  house  a  new  recruit, 
Where,  drawn  by  Nature's  subtlest  law 
Haply  the  watchful  young  men  saw 
Sweet  doorway  pictures  of  the  curls 
And  curious  eyes  of  merry  girls, 
Lifting  their  hands  in  mock  defence 
Against  the  snow-ball's  compliments, 
And  reading  in  each  missive  tost 
The  charm  with  Eden  never  lost. 

We  heard  once  more   the   sleigh-bells' 
sound  ; 

And,   following  where  the  teamsters 

led, 

The  wise  old  Doctor  went  his  round, 
Just  pausing  at  our  door  to  say, 
In  the  brief  autocratic  way 
Of  one  who,  prompt  at  Duty's  call, 
Was  free  to  urge  her  claim  on  all, 

That  some  poor  neighbor  sick  abed 
At  night  our  mother's  aid  would  need. 
For,  one  in  generous  thought  and  deed, 

What  mattered  in  the  sufferer's  sight 

The  Quaker  matron's  inward  light, 
The  Doctor's  mail  of  Calvin's  creed  ? 
All  hearts  confess  the  saints  elect 

Who,  twain  in  faith,  in  love  agree, 
And  melt  not  in  an  acid  sect 

The  Christian  pearl  of  charity  ! 

So  days  went  on  :  a  week  had  passed 
Since   the  great  world  was  heard  from 

last. 

The  Almanac  we  studied  o'er, 
Read  and  reread  our  little  store, 
Of  books  arid  pamphlets,  scarce  a  score  ; 
One  harmless  novel,  mostly  hid 
From  younger  eyes,  a  book  forbid, 
And  poetry,  (or  good  or  bad, 
A  single  book  was  all  we  had, ) 
Where    Ellwood's    meek,     drab-skirted 

Muse, 

A  stranger  to  the  heathen  Nine, 
Sang,  with  a  somewhat  nasal  whine, 
The  w^ars  of  David  and  the  Jews. 
At  last  the  floundering  carrier  bore 
The  village  paper  to  our  door. 


Lo  !  broadening  outward  as  we  read, 
To  warmer  zones  the  horizon  spread ; 
In  panoramic  length  unrolled 
We  saw  the  marvels  that  it  told. 
Before  us  passed  the  painted  Creeks, 

And  daft  McGregor  on  his  raids 

In  Costa  Rica's  everglades. 
And  up  Taygetos  winding  slow 
Rode  Ypsilanti's  Mainote  Greeks, 
A  Turk's  head  at  each  saddle-bow  ! 
Welcome  to  us  its  week-old  news, 
Its  corner  for  the  rustic  Muse, 

Its  monthly  gauge  of  snow  and  rain, 
Its  record,  mingling  in  a  breath 
The  wredding  knell  and  dirge  of  death  ; 
Jest,  anecdote,  and  love-lorn  tale, 
The  latest  culprit  sent  to  jail ; 
Its  hue  and  cry  of  stolen  and  lost, 
Its  vendue  sales  and  goods  at  cost, 

And  traffic  calling  loud  for  gain. 
We  felt  the  stir  of  hall  and  street, 
The  pulse  of  life  that  round  us  beat ; 
The  chill  embargo  of  the  snow 
Was  melted  in  the  genial  glow  ; 
Wide  swung  again  our  ice-locked  door, 
And  all  the  world  was  ours  once  more  ! 

Clasp,  Angel  of  the  backward  look 
And  folded  wings  of  ashen  gray 
And  voice  of  echoes  far  away, 
The  brazen  covers  of  thy  book  ; 
The  weird  palimpsest  old  and  vast, 
Wherein  thou  hid'st  the  spectral  past ; 
Where,  closely  mingling,  pale  and  glow 
The  characters  of  joy  and  wroe  ; 
The  monographs  of  outlived  years, 
Or  smile-illumed  or  dim  with  tears, 

Green  hills  of  life  that  slope  to  death, 
And  haunts  of  home,  whose  vistaed  trees 
Shade  off  to  mournful  cypresses 

With  the  white  amaranths  underneath. 
Even  while  I  look,  I  can  but  heed 
The  restless  sands'  incessant  fall, 
Importunate  hours  that  hours  succeed, 
Each   clamorous   with   its    own    sharp 

need, 

And  duty  keeping  pace  with  all. 
Shut  down  and  clasp  the  heavy  lids  ; 
I  hear  again  the  voice  that  bids 
The  dreamer  leave  his  dream  midway 
For  larger  hopes  and  graver  fears  : 
Life  greatens  in  these  later  years, 
The  century's  aloe  flowers  to-day  ! 

Yet,  haply,  in  some  lull  of  life, 
Some  Truce  of  God  which  breaks  its 
strife, 


294 


THE   TENT   ON   THE   BEACH. 


The  worldling's  eyes  shall  gather  dew, 

Dreaming  in  throngful  city  ways 
Of  winter  joys  his  boyhood  knew  ; 
And  dear  and  early  friends  —  the  few 
"Who  yet  remain  —  shall  pause  to  view 
These  Flemish  pictures  of  old  days  ; 
Sit  with  me  by  the  homestead  hearth, 
And  stretch  the  hands  of  memory  forth 
To  warm  them  at  the  wood-fire's  blaze ! 


And  thanks  untraced  to  lips  unknown 
Shall  greet  me  like  the  odors  blown 
From  unseen  meadows  newly  mown, 
Or  lilies  floating  in  some  pond, 
A\rood-fringed,  the  wayside  gaze  beyond; 
The  traveller  owns  the  grateful  sense 
Of  sweetness  near,  he  knows  not  whence, 
And,  pausing,  takes  with  forehead  bare 
The  benediction  of  the  air. 


THE    TENT    ON    THE    BEACH, 

AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


I   WOULD  not  sin,  in  this  half-playful 

strain,  — 
Too  light  perhaps  for  serious   years, 

though  born 

Of  the  enforced  leisure  of  slow  pain,  — 
Against   the   pure    ideal    which   has 

drawn 

My  feet  to  follow  its  far-shining  gleam. 
A   simple   plot   is   mine  :    legends   and 

runes 
Of  credulous  days,  old  fancies  that  have 

lain 

Silent  from  boyhood  taking  voice  again, 
"Warmed  into  life  once  more,  even  as  the 

tunes 

That,  frozen  in  the  fabled  hunting-horn, 
Thawed  into  sound  :  —  a  winter  fireside 

dream 
Of  dawns   and  sunsets  by  the  summer 

sea, 
Whose  sands  are  traversed  by  a  silent 

throng 

Of  voyagers  from  that  vaster  mystery 
Of  which  it  is  an  emblem  ;  —  and  the 

dear 
Memory  of  one  who  might  have  tuned 

my  song 

To  sweeter  music  by  her  delicate  ear. 
l5two.,1867. 


THE  TENT   ON  THE   BEACH. 

WHEN  heats  as  of  a  tropic  clime 
Burned    all    our     inland    valleys 
through, 


Three  friends,  the  guests  of  summer 

time, 
Pitched  their  white  tent  where  sea 

winds  blew. 
Behind   them,  marshes,  seamed   and 

crossed 

With   narrow  creeks,  and  flower-em 
bossed, 
Stretched  to  the  dark  oak  wood,  whose 

leafy  arms 

Screened   Irom    the    stormy    East    the 
pleasant  inland  farms. 

At  full  of  tide  their  bolder  shore 
Of  sun-bleached   sand   the    waters 

beat ; 
At    ebb,    a    smooth    and    glistening 

floor 
They  touched  with  light,  receding 

feet. 
Northward   a  green  bluff  broke  the 

chain 
Of  sand-hills  ;  southward  stretched  a 

plain 
Of    salt   grass,    with   a    river    winding 

down, 

Sail-whitened,  and  beyond  the  steeples 
of  the  town, 

"Whence  sometimes,  when  the  wind 

was  light 

And  dull  the  thunder  of  the  beach, 
They  heard  the  bells  of  morn  and 

night 

Swing,    miles    away,    their    silver 
speech. 


THE   TENT   ON   THE   BEACH. 


295 


Above     low    scarp    and     turf-grown 

wall 

They  saw  the  fort-flag  rise  and  fall ; 
And,  the  first  star  to  signal  twilight's 

hour, 

The  lamp-fire  glimmer   down  from  the 
tall  lighthouse  tower. 

They  rested  there,  escaped  awhile 

From  cares  that  wear  the  life  away, 
To  eat  the  lotus  of  the  Nile 

And  drink  the  poppies  of  Cathay,  — 
To  fling  their  loads  of  custom  down, 
Like   drift-weed,  on   the   sand-slopes 

brown. 
And  in  the  sea  waves  drown  the  restless 

pack 

Of  duties,  claims,  and  needs  that  barked 
upon  their  track. 

One,  with  his  beard  scarce  silvered, 

bore 

A  ready  credence  in  his  looks, 
A  lettered  magnate,  lording  o'er 

An  ever- widening  realm  of  books. 
In    him    brain  -  currents,    near    and 

far, 

Converged  as  in  a  Leyden  jar  ; 
The   old,    dead   authors   thronged   him 

round  about, 

And  Elzevir's  gray  ghosts  from  leathern 
graves  looked  out. 

He  knew  each  living  pundit  well, 
Could  weigh  the  gifts   of  him  or 

her, 
And  well  the  market  value  tell 

Of  poet  and  philosopher. 
But  if  he  lost,  the  scenes  behind, 
Somewhat    of    reverence   vague    and 

blind, 

Finding  the  actors  human  at  the  best, 
No   readier   lips  than   his  the  good  he 
saw  confessed. 

His  boyhood  fancies  not  outgrown, 

He  loved  himself  the  singer's  art ; 
Tenderly,  gently,  by  his  own 

He  knew  and  judged  an  author's 

heart. 

No  Rhadamanthine  brow  of  doom 
Bowed   the    dazed    pedant   from   his 

room  ; 
And   bards,  whose  name  is   legion,    if 

denied, 

Bore  off  alike  intact  their  verses  and 
their  pride. 


Pleasant  it  was  to  roam  about 

The  lettered  world  as  he  had  done, 
And  see  the  lords  of  song  without 
Their  singing  robes  and  garlands 

on. 
With     Wordsworth     paddle     Rydal 

mere, 
Taste   rugged   Elliott's  home-brewed 

beer, 

And  with  the  ears  of  Rogers,  at  four 
score, 

Hear     Garrick's    buskined    tread    and 
Walpole's  wit  once  more. 

And  one  there  was,  a  dreamer  born, 

Who,  with  a  mission  to  fulfil, 
Had  left  the  Muses'  haunts  to  turn 

The  crank  of  an  opinion -mill, 
Making  his  rustic  reed  of  song 
A  weapon  in  the  war  with  wrong, 
Yoking  his  fancy  to  the  breaking-plough 
That  beam-deep  turned  the  soil  for  truth 
to  spring  and  grow. 

Too  quiet  seemed  the  man  to  ride 
The  winged  Hippogriff  Reform ; 
Was  his  a  voice  from  side  to  side 

To  pierce  the  tumult  of  the  storm  ? 
A  silent,  shy,  peaee-loving  man, 
He  seemed  no  fiery  partisan 
To   hold   his    way   against    the   public 

frown, 

The  ban  of  Church  and  State,  the  fierce 
mob's  hounding  down. 

For  Avhile  he  wrought  with  strenuous 

will 
The  work  his  hands  had  found  to 

do, 
He  heard  the  fitful  music  still 

Of  winds  that  out   of  dream-land 

blew. 

The  din  about  him  could  not  drown 
What  the   strange  voices  whispered 

down  ; 
Along  his  task-field  weird  processions 

swept, 

The  visionary  pomp  of  stately  phantoms 
stepped. 

The    common    air    was    thick     with 
dreams,  — 

He  told  them  to  the  toiling  crowd  ; 
Such  music  as  the  woods  and  streams 

Sang  in  -his  ear  he  sang  aloud  ; 
In  still,  shut  bays,  on  windy  capes, 
He  heard  the  call  of  beckoning  shapes, 


296 


THE  TENT   ON   THE  BEACH. 


And,  as  the  gray  old  shadows  prompted 

him, 
To  homely  moulds  of  rhyme  he  shaped 

their  legends  grim. 

He  rested  now  his  weary  hands, 

And  lightly  moralized  and  laughed, 
As,  tracing  on  the  shifting  sands 
A  burlesque  of  his  paper-craft, 
He  saw  the  careless  waves  o'errun 
His  words,  as  time  before  had  done, 
Each   day's   tide-water    washing    clean 

away, 

Like  letters  from  the  sand,  the  work  of 
yesterday. 

And  one,  whose  Arab  fact;  was  tanned 

By  tropic  sun  and  boreal  frost, 
So  travelled  there  was  scarce  a  land 

Or  people  left  him  to  exhaust, 
In  idling  mood  had  from  him  hurled 
The    poor    squeezed    orange    of    the 

world, 
And  in  the  tent-shade,  as  beneath  a 

palm, 

Smoked,  cross-legged  like   a  Turk,  in 
Oriental  calm. 

The    very    waves    that    washed    the 

sand 

Below  him,  he  had  seen  before 
Whitening  the  Scandinavian  strand 

And  sultry  Mauritania!!  shore. 
From  ice-rimmed  isles,  from  summer 

seas 

Palm-fringed,  they  bore  him  messages ; 
He  heard  the   plaintive   Nubian   songs 

again, 

And  mule-bells  tinkling  down  the  moun 
tain-paths  of  Spain. 

His    memory    round    the    ransacked 

earth 

On  Puck's  long  girdle  slid  at  ease  ; 
And,  instant,  to  the  valley's  girth. 
Of    mountains,  spice  isles   of    the 

seas, 
Faith    flowered    in    minster    stones, 

Art's  guess 

At  truth  and  beauty,  found  access  ; 
Yet  loved  the  while,  that  free  cosmopo 
lite, 

Old  friends,  old  ways,  and  kept  his  boy 
hood's  dreams  in  sight. 

Untouched  as  yet  by  wealth  and  pride, 
That  virgin  innocence  of  beach : 


No  shingly  monster,  hundred-eyed, 
Stared  its  gray  sand-birds  out  of 

reach  ; 

Unhoused,  save  where,  at  intervals, 
The  white  tents  showed  their  canvas 

walls, 
Where   brief    sojourners,    in  the   cool, 

soft  air, 

Forgot  their  inland  heats,  hard  toil,  and 
year-long  care. 

Sometimes  along  the  wheel-deep  sand 
A  one-horse  wagon  slowly  crawled, 
Deep  laden  with  a  youthful  band, 
Whose   look   some   homestead   old 

recalled  ; 

Brother  perchance,  and  sisters  twain, 
And  one  whose  blue  eyes  told,  more 

plain 

Than  the  free  language  of  her  rosy  lip, 
Of  the  still  dearer  claim  of  love's  rela 
tionship. 

With  cheeks  of  russet-orchard  tint, 

The  light  laugh  of  their  native  rills, 
The  perfume  of  their  garden's  mint, 

The  breezy  freedom  of  the  hills, 
They  bore,  in  unrestrained  delight, 
The  motto  of  the  Garter's  knight, 
Careless  as  if  from  every  gazing  thing 
Hid   by  their   innocence,  as   Gyges  by 
his  ring. 

The  clanging  sea-fowl  came  and  went, 
The  hunter's  gun   in   the  marshes 

rang  ; 

At  nightfall  from  a  neighboring  tent 
A  flute- voiced  woman  sweetly  sang. 
Loose-haired,      barefooted,     hand-in- 

hand, 
Young  girls  went  tripping  down  the 

sand  ; 
And  youths  and  maidens,  sitting  in  the 

moon, 

Dreamed  o'er  the  old  fond  dream  from 
which  we  wake  too  soon. 

At  times  their  fishing-lines  they  plied, 

With  an  old  Triton  at  the  oar, 
Salt  as  the  sea-wind,  tough  and  dri<  d 

As  a  lean  cusk  from  Labrador. 
Strange   tales  he  told  of  wreck  and 

storm,  — 

Had  seen  the  sea-snake's  awful  form, 
And   heard  the  ghosts  on  Haley's  Isle 

complain, 

Speak  him  off  shore,  and  beg  a  passage 
to  old  Spain  ! 


THE   WRECK   OF   RIVERMOUTH. 


297 


And  there,  on  breezy  morns,  they  saw 
The  fishing-schooners  outward  run, 
Their  low-bent  sails  in  tack  and  Haw 
Turned  white  or  dark  to  shade  and 

sun. 

Sometimes,  in  calms  of  closing  day, 
They    watched   the    spectral    mirage 

play, 
Saw  low,  far  islands  looming  tall  and 

nigh, 

And  ships,  with  upturned  keels,  sail  like 
a  sea  the  sky. 

Sometimes    a    cloud,     with    thunder 

black, 
Stooped   low   upon   the   darkening 

main, 

Piercing  the  waves  along  its  track 
With  the  slant  javelins  of  rain. 
And   when   west-wind   and  sunshine 

warm 

Chased  out  to  sea  its  wrecks  of  storm, 
They  saw  the  prismy  hues  in  thin  spray 

showers 

Where   the  green   buds  of  waves  burst 
into  white  froth  flowers. 

And  when  along  the  line  of  shore 
The  mists  crept  upward  chill  and 

damp, 
Stretched,    careless,    on   their    sandy 

floor 

Beneath  the  flaring  lantern  lamp, 
They  talked  of    all   things   old   and 

new, 
Read,    slept,  and   dreamed   as   idlers 

do  ; 
And  in  the  unquestioned  freedom  of  the 

tent, 

Body  and  o'er-taxed  mind  to  healthful 
ease  unbent. 

Once,  when  the  sunset  splendors  died, 
And,  trampling  up  the  sloping  sand, 
In  lines  outreaching  far  and  wide, 
The  white-maned  billows  swept  to 

land, 

Dim  seen  across  the  gathering  shade, 
A  vast  and  ghostly  cavalcade, 
They  sat  around  their  lighted  kerosene, 
Hearing  the  deep  bass  roar  their  every 
pause  between. 

Then,  urged  thereto,  the  Editor 
Within  his  full  portfolio  dipped, 

Feigning  excuse  while  searching  for 
(With  secret  pride)  his  manuscript 


His   pale   face   flushed  from    eye  to 

beard, 
With   nervous   cough   his   throat   he 

cleared, 

And,  in  a  voice  so  tremulous  it  betrayed 
The   anxious   fondness   of    an   author's 
heart,  he  read : 


THE   WRECK   OF   RIVERMOUTH. 

RIVKRMOUTH  Rocks  are  fair  to  see, 
By  datvn  or  sunset  shone  across, 
When  the  ebb  of  the  sea  has  left  them 

free, 
To   dry   their   fringes   of    gold-green 

moss  : 

For  there  the  river  comes  winding  down 
From    salt    sea-meadows    and    uplands 

brown, 

And  waves  on  the  outer  rocks  afoam 
Shout  to  its  waters,  "  Welcome  home  !  " 

And  fair  are  the  sunny  isles  in  view 
East  of  the  grisly  Head  of  the  Boar, 

And  Agamenticus  lifts  its  blue 

Disk  of  a  cloud  the  woodlands  o'er  ; 

And  southerly,  when  the  tide  is  down, 

Twixt  white  sea-waves  and  sand-hills 
brown, 

The   beach-birds   dance,    and   the   gray 
gulls  wheel 

Over  a  floor  of  burnished  steel. 

Once,  in  the  old  Colonial  days, 

Two  hundred  years  ago  and  more, 
A  boat  sailed  down  through  the  wind 
ing  ways 

Of  Hampton  River  to  that  low  shore, 
Full  of  a  goodly  company 
Sailing  out  on  the  summer  sea, 
Veering  to  catch  the  land-breeze  light, 
With  the  Boar  to  left  and  the  Rocks  to 
right. 

In    Hampton  meadows,  where   mowers 

laid 
Their  scythes  to  the  swaths  of  salted 

grass, 
"Ah,    well-a-day  !    our    hay  must    be 

made  !  " 
A  young  man  sighed,  who  saw  them 

pass. 
Loud   laughed  his   fellows   to   see  him 

stand 

Whetting  his  scythe  with  a  listless  hand, 
Hearing  a  voice  in  a  far-off  song, 
Watching  a  white  hand  beckoning  long. 


298 


THE  TENT  ON  THE   BEACH. 


"Fie   on   the  witch!"  cried   a   merry 

girl> 
As   they   rounded    the   point    where 

Goody  Cole 

Sat  by  her  door  with  her  wheel  atwirl, 
A  bent  and  blear-eyed  poor  old  soul. 
"Oho!"    she  muttered,    "ye 're   brave 

to-day  ! 
But  I  hear  the  little  waves  laugh  and 

say, 
'The  broth  will  be  cold  that  waits  at 

home  ; 
For  it 's  one  to  go,  but  another  to 

come  ! '  " 

"She's     cursed,"    said     the    skipper; 

"speak  her  fair  : 

I  'in  scary  always  to  see  her  shake 
Her   wicked   head,  with   its   wild  gray 

hair, 
And  nose  like  a  hawk,  and  eyes  like  a 

snake," 

But  merrily  still,  with  laugh  and  shout, 
From  Hampton  River   the   boat   sailed 

out, 
Till   the   huts   and  the   flakes   on  Star 

seemed  nigh, 
And  they  lost  the  scent  of  the  pines  of 

Rye. 

They  dropped  their   lines   in   the   lazy 

tide, 
Drawing   up    haddock    and    mottled 

cod ; 
They  saw  not  the  Shadow  that  walked 

beside, 
They  heard  not  the  feet  with  silenc'e 

shod. 
But  thicker  and  thicker  a  hot  mist 

grew, 
Shot  by  the  lightnings  through  and 

through  ; 
And  muffled  growls,  like  the  growl  of  a 

beast, 
Ran  along  the  sky  from  west  to  east. 

Then  the  skipper  looked  from  the  dark 
ening  sea 
Up  to  the  dimmed  and  wading  sun  ; 

But  he  spake  like  a  brave  man  cheer 
ily. 

"  Yet  there  is  time  for  our  homeward 

run." 
Veering  and  tacking,  they  backward 

wore  ; 
And  just  as  a  breath  from  the  woods 

ashore 


Blew  out  to  whispar  of  danger  past, 
The  wrath  of  the  storm  came  down  at 
last! 

The  skipper  hauled  at  the  heavy  sail : 
"  God  be  our  help  !  "  he  only  cried, 
As  the  roaring  gale,  like  the  stroke  of  a 

flail, 

Smote  the  boat  on  its  starboard  side. 
The  Shoalsmen  looked,  but  saw  alone 
Dark  films  of  rain-cloud  slantwise  blown, 
"Wild  rocks   lit   up  by   the   lightning's 

glare, 
The  strife  and  torment  of  sea  and  air. 

Goody  Cole  looked  out  from  her  door  : 
The  Isles  of  Shoals  were  drowned  and 

gone, 
Scarcely  she  saw  the  Head  of  the  Boar 

Toss  the  foam  from  tusks  of  stone. 
She  clasped  her  hands  with   a  grip  of 

pain, 

The  tear  on  her  cheek  was  not  of  rain  : 
"They  are  lost,"  she  muttered,    "boat 

and  crew  ! 

Lord,    forgive     me !     my     words    were 
true  ! " 

Suddenly  seaward  swept  the  squall  ; 
The  low  sun   smote   through   cloudy 

rack  ; 
The  Shoals  stood  clear  in  the  light,  and 

all 
The  trend  of  the  coast  lay  hard  and 

black. 

But  far  and  wide  as  eye  could  reach, 
No  life  was  seen  upon  wave  or  beach  ; 
The   boat   that   went    out   at    morning 

never 
Sailed  back  again  into  Hampton  River. 

0  mower,  lean  on  thy  bended  snath, 
Look  from   the   meadows  green   and 

low  : 
The  wind  of  the  sea  is  a  waft  of  death, 

The  waves  arc  singing  a  song  of  woe ! 
By  silent  river,  by  moaning  sea, 
Long  and  vain  shall  thy  watching  be  • 
Never  again  shall  the  sweet  voice  call, 
Never  the  white  hand  rise  and  fall  ! 

0  Rivermouth  Rocks,  how  sad  a  sight 
Ye    saw   in    the    light   of    breaking 

day! 

Dead  faces  looking  up  cold  and  white 
From  sand  and  sea-weed  where  they 
lay. 


THE   GRAVE  BY   THE   LAKE. 


299 


The    mad    old  witch-wife  wailed    and  j 
wept, 

And   cursed  the   tide    as  it  backward 
crept : 

"  Crawl  back,   crawl  back,  blue  water- 
snake  ! 

Leave   your   dead   for   the   hearts   that 
break  ! " 

Solemn  it  was  in  that  old  day 

In  Hampton  town   and  its  log-built 

church, 

Where  side  by  side  the  coffins  lay 
And  the  mourners  stood  in  aisle  and 

porch. 
In  the  singing-seats  young  eyes  were 

dim, 
The    voices    faltered    that    raised    the 

hymn, 

And  Father  Dalton,  grave  and  stern, 
Sobbed  through  his  prayer  and  wept  in 

turn. 

But  his  ancient  colleague  did  not  pray, 
Because  of  his  sin  at  fourscore  years : 

He  stood  apart,  with  the  iron-gray 
Of  his  strong  brows  knitted  to  hide 
his  tears. 

And  a   wretched   woman,    holding   her 
breath 

In  the  awful  presence  of  sin  and  death, 

Cowered  and  shrank,  while  her  neigh 
bors  thronged 

To  look   on   the   dead  her   shame   had 
wronged. 

Apart  with  them,  like  them  forbid, 
Old     Goody    Cole     looked     drearily 

round, 

As,  two  by  two,  with  their  faces  hid, 
The  mourners  walked  to  the  burying- 

ground. 
She  let  the  staff  from  her  clasped  hands 

fall: 

"  Lord,  forgive  us  !  we  're  sinners  all  !  " 
A.nd  the  voice  of  the  old  man  answered 

her  : 
"'  Arneii !  "  said  Father  Bachiler. 

So,  as  I  sat  upon  Appledore 

In  the  calm  of  a  closing  smnmer  day, 
And  the  broken  lines  of  Hampton  shore 

In  purple  mist  of  cloudland  lay, 
The  Eivermouth  Rocks  their  story  told  ; 
And  waves  aglow  with  sunset  gold, 
Rising  and  breaking  in  steady  chime, 
Beat  the  rhythm  and  kept  the  time. 


And  the  sunset  paled,  and  warmed  once 

more 
With  a  softer,  tenderer  after-glow  ; 

In  the  east  was  moon-rise,    with  boats 

off-shore 

And   sails   in    the   distance    drifting 
slow. 

The    beacon    glimmered    from     Ports 
mouth  bar, 

The  White   Isle  kindled   its  great  red 
star ; 

And  life  and  death  in  my  old-time  lay 

Mingled  in  peace   like   the   night  and 
day  ! 


"Well!"    said     the    Man    of    Books, 

"your  story 

Is  really  not  ill  told  in  verse. 
As  the  Celt  said  of  purgatory, 

One  might  go  farther  and  fare  worse." 
The  Reader  smiled  ;  and  once  again 
With    steadier    voice    took     up    his 

strain, 

While  the  fair  singer  from  the  neighbor 
ing  tent 

Drew   near,  and   at  his  side  a  graceful 
listener  bent. 


THE  GRAVE  BY  THE  LAKE. 

WHERE  the  Great  Lake's  sunny  smiles 
Dimple  round  its  hundred  isles, 
And  the  mountain's  granite  ledge 
Cleaves  the  water  like  a  wedge, 
Ringed  about  with  smooth,  gray  stones, 
Rest  the  giant's  mighty  bones. 

Close  beside,  in  shade  and  gleam, 
Laughs  and  ripples  Melvin  stream  ; 
Melvin  water,  mountain-born, 
All  fair  flowers  its  banks  adorn  ; 
All  the  woodland's  voices  meet, 
Mingling  with  its  murmurs  sweet. 

Over  lowlands  forest-grown, 
Over  waters  island-strown, 
Over  silver-sanded  beach, 
Leaf-locked  bay  and  misty  reach, 
Melvin  stream  and  burial-heap, 
Watcli  and  ward  the  mountains  keep. 

Who  that  Titan  cromlech  fills  ? 
Forest-kaiser,  lord  o'  the  hills  ? 
Knight  who  on  the  birchen  trea 
Carved  his  savage  heraldry  t 


300 


THE   TENT   ON   THE   BEACH. 


Priest  o  the  pine-wood  temples  dim, 
Prophet,  sage,  or  wizard  grim  ? 

Rugged  type  of  primal  man, 
Grim  utilitarian, 

Loving  woods  for  hunt  and  prowl, 
Lake  and  hill  for  fish  and  fowl, 
As  the  brown  bear  blind  and  dull 
To  the  grand  and  beautiful : 

Not  for  him  the  lesson  drawn 
From  the  mountains  smit  with  dawn. 
Star-rise,  moon-rise,  flowers  of  May, 
Sunset's  purple  bloom  of  day,  — 
Took  his  life  no  hue  from  thence, 
Poor  amid  such  aiiluence  ? 

Haply  unto  hill  and  tree 
All  too  near  akin  was  lie  : 
Unto  him  who  stands  afar 
Nature's  marvels  greatest  are  ; 
Who  the  mountain  purple  seeks 
Must  not  climb  the  higher  peaks. 

Yet  who  knows  in  winter  tramp, 
Or  the  midnight  of  the  camp, 
What  revealings  faint  and  far, 
Stealing  down  from  moon  and  star, 
Kindled  in  that  human  clod 
Thought  of  destiny  and  God  ? 

Stateliest  forest  patriarch, 
Grand  in  robes  of  skin  and  bark, 
What  sepulchral  mysteries, 
What  weird  funeral-rites,  were  his  ? 
What  sharp  wail,  what  drear  lament, 
Back  scared  wolf  and  eagle  sent  ? 

Now,  whate'er  he  may  have  been, 
Low  he  lies  as  other  men  ; 
On  his  mound  the  partridge  drums, 
There  the  noisy  blue-jay  comes  ; 
Rank  nor  name  nor  pomp  has  he 
In  the  grave's  democracy. 

Part  thy  blue  lips.,  Northern  lake  ! 
Moss-grown  rocks,  your  silence  break 
Tell  the  tale,  thou  ancient  tree  ! 
Thou,  too,  slide-worn  Ossipee  ! 
Speak,  and  tell  iis  how  and  when 
Lived  and  died  this  king  of  men  ! 

Wordless  moans  the  ancient  pine  ; 
Lake  and  mountain  give  no  sign  ; 
Vain  to  trace  this  ring  of  stones  ; 
Vain  the  search  of  crumbling  bones  : 
Deepest  of  all  mysteries, 
And  the  saddest,  silence  is. 


Nameless,  noteless,  clay  with  clay 
Mingles  slowly  day  by  day  ; 
But  somewhere,  for  good  or  ill, 
That  dark  soul  is  living  still ; 
Somewhere  yet  that  atom's  force 
Moves  the  light-poised  universe. 

Strange  that  on  his  burial-sod 
Harebells  bloom,  and  golden-rod. 
While  the  soul's  dark  horoscope 
Holds  no  starry  sign  of  hope  ! 
Is  the  Unseen  with  sight  at  odds  ? 
Nature's  pity  more  than  God's  ? 

Thus  I  mused  by  Melvin's  side, 
While  the  summer  eventide 
Made  the  wocds  and  inland  sea 
And  the  mountains  mystery  ; 
Arid  the  hush  of  earth  and  air 
Seemed  the  pause  before  a  prayer,  — 

Prayer  for  him,  for  all  who  rest, 
Mother  Earth,  upon  thy  breast,  — 
Lapped  on  Christian  turf,  or  hid 
In  rock-cave  or  pyramid  : 
All  who  sleep,  as  all  who  live, 
Well  may  need  the  prayer,  "  Forgive  1 

Desert-smothered  caravan, 
Knee-deep  dust  that  once  was  man, 
Battle-trenches  ghastly  piled, 
Ocean-floors  with  white  bones  tiled, 
Crowded  tomb  and  mounded  sod, 
Dumbly  crave  that  prayer  to  God. 

0  the  generations  old 

Over  whom  no  church-bells  tolled, 

Christless,  lifting  up  blind  eyes 

To  the  silence  of  the  skies  ! 

For  the  innumerable  dead 

Is  my  soul  disquieted. 

Where  be  now  these  silent  hosts  ? 
Where  the  camping-ground  of  ghosts  ? 
Where  the  spectral  conscripts  led 
To  the  white  tents  of  the  dead  ? 
What  strange  shore  or  chartless  sea 
Holds  the  awful  mystery  ? 

Then  the  warm  sky  stooped  to  make 
Double  sunset  in  the  lake  ; 
While  above  I  saw  with  it, 
Range  on  range,  the  mountains  lit ; 
And  the  calm  and  splendor  stole 
Like  an  answer  to  my  soul. 

Hear'st  thou,  0  of  little  faith, 
What  to  thee  the  mountain  saith, 


THE  TENT   ON   THE  BEACH. 


301 


What  is  whispered  by  the  trees  ?  — 
"Cast  on  God  thy  care  for  these  ; 
Trust  him,  if  thy  sight  be  dim  : 
Doubt  for  them  is  doubt  of  Him. 

"  Blind  must  be  their  close-shut  eyes 
Where  like  night  the  sunshine  lies, 
Fiery-linked  the  self-forged  chain 
Binding  ever  sin  to  pain, 
Strong  their  prison-house  of  will, 
But  without  He  waiteth  still. 

"  Not  with  hatred's  undertow 
Doth  the  Love  Eternal  How ; 
Every  chain  that  spirits  wear 
Crumbles  in  the  breath  of  prayer  ; 
And  the  penitent's  desire 
Opens  every  gate  of  fire. 

"  Still  Thy  love,  0  Christ  arisen, 
Yearns  to  reach  these  souls  in  prison  ! 
Through  all  depths  of  sin  and  loss 
Drops  the  plummet  of  Thy  cross  ! 
Never  yet  abyss  was  found 
Deeper  than  that  cross  could  sound  !" 

Therefore  well  may  Nature  keep 
Equal  faith  with  all  who  sleep, 
Set  her  watch  of  hills  around 
Christian  grave  and  heathen  mound, 
And  to  cairn  and  kirkyard  send 
Summer's  flowery  dividend. 

Keep,  O  pleasant  Melvin  stream, 
Thy  sweet  laugh  in  shade  and  gleam  ! 
On  the  Indian's  grassy  tomb 
Swing,  0  (lowers,  your  bells  of  bloom  ! 
Deep  below,  as  high  above, 
Sweeps  the  circle  of  God's  love. 


He   paused  and   questioned  with  his 

eye 

The  hearers'  verdict  on  his  song. 
A  low  voice  asked  :  Is  't  well  to  pry 

Into  the  secrets  which  belong 
Only  to  God  ?—  The  life  to  be 
Is  still  the  ungucssed  mystery  : 
Unsealed,    unpierced   the  cloudy   walls 

remain, 

We    beat  with    dream    and  wish    the 
soundless  doors  in  vain. 

"  But  faith  beyond  our  sight  may  go/ 
He  said :  ' '  The  gracious  Fatherhood 

Can  only  know  above,  below, 
Eternal  purposes  of  good. 


From  our  free  heritage  of  will, 
The  bitter  springs  of  pain  and  ill 
Flow  only  in   all   worlds.     The  perfect 

day 

Of  God  is  shadowless,  and  love  is  love 
alway." 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  "the  letter  kills; 

That  on  our  arid  fields  of  strife 
And  heat  of  clashing  texts  distils 

The  dew  of  spirit  and  of  life. 
But,  searching  still  the  written  Word, 
I  fain  would  find,  Thus  saith  the  Lord, 
A  voucher  for  the  hope  I  also  feel 
That   sin   can   give  110   wound   beyond 
love's  power  to  heal." 

"  Pray,"    said   the    Man   of    Books, 

"give  o'er 

A  theme  too  vast  for  time  and  place 
Go  on,  Sir  Poet,  ride  once  more 

Your  hobby  at  his  old  free  pace. 
But  let  him  keep,  with  step  discreet, 
The  solid  earth  beneath  his  feet. 
In  the  great  mystery  which  around  us 

lies, 

The   wisest  is  a  fool,  the  fool  Heaven- 
helped  is  wise." 

The  Traveller  said  :    "If  songs  have 

creeds, 
Their   choice   of   them   let   singers 

make  ; 
But  Art  no  other  sanction  needs 

Than  beauty  for  its  own  fair  sake. 
It  grinds  not  in  the  mill  of  use, 
Nor  asks  for  leave,  nor  begs  excuse  ; 
It  makes   the  flexile   laws  it  deigns  to 

own, 

And  gives  its  atmosphere  its  color  and 
its  tone. 

"  Confess,    old    friend,    your   austere 

school 

Has  left  your  fancy  little  chance ; 
You  square  to  reason's  rigid  rule 

The  flowing  outlines  of  romance. 
With  conscience  keen  from  exercise, 
And  chronic  fear  of  compromise, 
You  check  the  free  play  of  your  rhymes, 

to  clap 

A  moral  underneath,  and  spring  it  like 
a  trap." 

The  sweet  voice  answered  :  "  Better  so 
Than  bolder  nights  that  know  no 
check  ; 


302 


THE   TENT    ON   THE   BEACH. 


Better  to  use  the  bit,  than  throw 

The  reins  all  loose  on  fancy's  neck. 
The  liberal  range  of  Art  should  be 
The  breadth  of  Christian  liberty, 
Restrained  alone  by  challenge  and  alarm 
Where  its  charmed  footsteps  tread  the 
border  land  of  harm. 

"  Beyond  the  poet's  sweet  dream  lives 

The  eternal  epic  of  the  man. 
He  wisest  is  who  only  gives, 

True  to  himself,  the  best  he  can  ; 
Who,  drifting  in  the  winds  of  praise, 
The  inward  monitor  obeys  ; 
And,  with  the  boldness  that  confesses  fear, 
Takes  in  the  crowded  sail,  and  lets  his 
conscience  steer. 

"  Thanks  for  the  fitting  word  he  speaks, 
Nor  less  for  doubtful  word  unspoken ; 
For  the  false  model  that  he  breaks, 

As  for  the  moulded  grace  unbroken ; 
For  what  is  missed  and  what  remains, 
For  losses  which  are  truest  gains, 
For  reverence  conscious  of  the  Eternal 

eye, 

And  truth  too  fair  to  need  the  garnish 
of  a  lie." 

Laughing,    the    Critic    bowed.       "  I 

yield 

The  point  without  another  word ; 
Who  ever  yet  a  case  appealed 

Where  beauty's  judgment  had  been 

heard  ? 

And  you,  my  good  friend,  owe  to  me 
Your  warmest  thanks  for  such  a  plea, 
A.S  true  withal  as  sweet.     For  my  offence 
Of  cavil,  let  her  words  be  ample  recom 
pense." 

Across  the  sea  one  lighthouse  star, 
With   crimson  ray  that   came  and 

went, 
Revolving  on  its  tower  afar, 

Looked  through  the  doorway  of  the 

tent. 

While  outward,  over  sand-slopes  wet, 
The  lamp  flashed  down  its  yellow  jet 
On  the  long  wash  of  waves,  with  red  and 

green 

Tangles  of  weltering  weed  through  the 
white  foam-wreaths  seen. 

"  '  Sing  while  we  may,  —  another  day 
May  bring  enough   of  sorrow  ' ;  — 
thus 


Our  Traveller  in  his  own  sweet  lay, 

His  Crimean  camp-song,  hints  to  us," 
The  lady  said.      ' '  So  let  it  be  ; 
Sing  us  a  song,"  exclaimed  all  three. 
She  smiled  :   "  1  can  but  marvel  at  your 

choice 

To  hear  our  poet's  words  through  my 
poor  borrowed  voice." 


Her  window  opens  to  the  bay, 
On  glistening  light  or  misty 
And  there  at  dawn  and  set  of  day 

In  prayer  she  kneels  : 
"Dear  Lord!"   she  saith,   "to  many  a 

home 
From   wind    and   wave   the    wanderers 

come  ; 
I  only  see  the  tossing  foam 

Of  stranger  keels. 

"  Blown  out  and  in  by  summer  gales, 
The  stately  ships,  with  crowded  sails, 
And  sailors  leaning  o'er  their  rails, 

Before  me  glide  ; 

They  come,  they  go,  but  nevermore, 
Spice-laden  from  the  Indian  shore, 
I  see  his  swift-winged  Isidore 

The  waves  divide. 

"  0  Thou  !  with  whom  the  night  is  day 
And  one  the  near  and  far  away, 
Look  out  on  yon  gray  waste,  and  say 

Where  lingers  he. 

Alive,  perchance,  on  some  lone  beach 
Or  thirsty  isle  beyond  the  reach 
Of  man,  he  hears  the  mocking  speech 

Of  wind  and  sea. 

"0  dread  and  cruel  deep,  reveal 
The  secret  which  thy  waves  conceal, 
And,  ve  wild  sea-birds,  hither  wheel 

And  tell  your  tale. 
Let  winds  that  tossed  his  raven  hair 
A  message  from  my  lost  one  bear,  — 
Some  thought  of  me,  a  last  fond  prayer 

Or  dying  wail ! 

"Come,  with  your  dreariest  truth  shut 

out 

The  fears  that  haunt  me  round  about ; 
O  God  !  I  cannot  bear  this  doubt 

That  stifles  breath. 
The  worst  is  better  than  the  dread  ; 
Give  me  but  leave  to  mourn  my  dead 
Asleep  in  trust  and  hope,  instead 

Of  life  in  death  !  " 


THE   BROTHER   OF   MERCY. 


303 


It  might  have  been  the  evening  breeze 
That  whispered  in  the  garden  trees, 
It  might  have  been  the  sound  of  seas 

That  rose  and  fell ; 
But,  with  her  heart,  if  not  her  ear, 
The  old  loved  voice  she  seemed  to  hear  : 
"  I  wait  to  meet  thee  :  be  of  cheer, 

For  all  is  well  !  " 


The  sweet  voice  into  silence  went, 

A  silence  which  was  almost  pain 
As  through  it  rolled  the  long  lament, 
The  cadence  of  the  mournful  main. 
Glancing  his  written  pages  o'er, 
The  Reader  tried  his  part  once  more  ; 
Leaving  the  land   of  hackmatack   and 

pine 

For  Tuscan  valleys  glad  with  olive  and 
with  vine. 


THE    BROTHER   OF   MERCY. 

PIERO  Luc  A,  known  of  all  the  town 
As  the  gray  porter  by  the  Pitti  wall 
Where  the  noon  shadows  of  the  gardens 

fall, 

Sick  and  in  dolor,  waited  to  lay  down 
His  last  sad  burden,  and  beside  his  mat 
The  barefoot  monk  of  La  Certosa  sat. 

Unseen,    in   square    and   blossoming 

garden  drifted, 
Soft  sunset   lights    through   green    Val 

d'  Arno  sifted  ; 
Unheard,     below     the    living    shuttles 

shifted 
Backward  and  forth,  and  wove,  in  love 

or  strife, 
In  mirth  or  pain,  the  mottled  web  of 

life: 
But  when  at  last  caine  upward  from  the 

street 

Tinkle  of  bell  and  tread  of  measured  feet, 
The  sick  man  started,  strove  to  rise  in 

vain, 
Sinking  back  heavily  with  a  moan  of 

pain. 
And   the   monk    said,    "'Tis   but    the 

Brotherhood 

Of  Mercy  going  on  some  errand  good  : 
Their  black  masks  by  the  palace-wall  I 

see." 

Piero  answered  faintly,  "  Woe  is  me  ! 
This    day   for  the  first    time  in   forty 

years 


In  vain  the  bell  hath  sounded  in  my 

ears, 
Calling  me   with   my   brethren  of  the 

mask, 
Beggar  and  prince  alike,  to  some  new 

task 

Of  love  or  pity,  —  haply  from  the  street 
To  bear   a   wretch  plague-stricken,   or, 

with  feet 
Hushed  to  the  quickened  ear  and  feve 

ish  brain, 

To  tread  the  crowded  lazaretto's  floors, 
Down  the  long  twilight  of  the  corridors, 
Midst  tossing   arms  and  faces   full   of 

pain. 

I  loved  the  work  :  it  was  its  own  reward. 
I  never  counted  on  it  to  offset 
My  sins,  which  are  many,  or  make  less 

my  debt 

To  the  free  grace  and  mercy  of  our  Lord ; 
But  somehow,  father,  it  has  come  to  lie 
In  these  long  years  so  much  a  part  of  me, 
I  should  not  know  myself,  if  lacking 

it, 
But  with  the  work  the  worker  too  would 

die, 
And  in  my  place  some  other  self  would 

sit 

Joyful  or  sad,  —  what  matters,  if  not  I  ? 
And  now  all 's  over.  Woe  is  me  !  "  —  - 

"My  son," 
The  monk  said  soothingly,  "  thy  work 

is  done  ; 

And  no  more  as  a  servant,  but  the  guest 
Of  God  thou  enterest  thy  eternal  rest. 
No  toil,  no  tears,  no  sorrow  for  the  lost, 
Shall  mar  thy  perfect  bliss.     Thou  shalt 

sit  down 
Clad  in  white  robes,  and  wear  a  golden 

crown 

Forever  and  forever. "  —  Piero  tossed 
On  his  sick-pillow  :  "  Miserable  me  ! 
I  am  too  poor  for  such  grand  company  ; 
The  crown  would  be  too  heavy  for  this 

gray 

Old  head  ;  and  God  forgive  me  if  I  say 
It  would  be  hard  to  sit  there  night  and 

day, 
Like  an  image  in    the  Tribune,   doing 

naught 
With  these  hard  hands,  that  all  my  life 

have  wrought, 
Not  for  bread  only,  but  for  pity's  sake. 
'  'm  dull  at  prayers  :    I  could  not  keep 

awake, 

Counting  my  beads.    Mine 's  but  a  crazy 
head, 


304 


THE   TENT   ON   THE   BEACH. 


Scarce  worth  the  saving,  if  all  else  be 

dead. 
And  if  one  goes  to  heaven   without  a 

heart, 
God  knows  he  leaves  behind  his  better 

part. 

I  love  my  fellow-men  :  the  worst  I  know 
I  would  do  good  to.     Will  death  change 

me  so 

That  I  shall  sit  among  the  lazy  saints, 
Turning  a  deaf  ear  to  the  sore  complaints 
Of  souls  that  suffer  ?     Why,  I  never  yet 
Left  a  poor  dog  in  the  strada  hard  beset, 
Or  ass  o'erladeii  !     Must  I  rate  man  less 
Than  dog  or  ass,  in  holy  selfishness  ? 
Methinks  (Lord,  pardon,  if  the  thought 

be  sin  !) 

The  world  of  pain  were  better,  if  therein 
One's  heart  might  still  be  human,  and 

desires 

Of  natural  pity  drop  upon  its  fires 
Some  cooling  tears." 

Thereat  the  pale  monk  crossed 
His  brow,  and,  muttering,    "Madman! 

thou  art  lost  !  " 

Took  up  his  pyx  and  fled  ;  and,  left  alone, 
The  sick   man   closed   his   eyes  with  a 

great  groan 
That  sank  into  a  prayer,  "  Thy  will  be 

done  !  " 

Then  was  he  made  awai-e,  by  soul  or 

ear, 
Of  somewhat  pure  and  holy  bending  o'er 

him, 
And  of  a  voice  like  that  of  her  who  bore 

him, 
Tender  and  most  compassionate  :  "Never 

fear  ! 
For  heaven  is  love,  as  God  himself  is 

love  ; 
Thy   work   below    shall    be    thy   work 

above." 
And  when  he  looked,  lo  !   in  the  stern 

monk's  place 
He  saw  the  shining  of  an  angel's  face  ! 


The  Traveller  broke  the  pause.      "  I  've 

seen 
The  Brothers   down  the   long   street 

steal, 

Black,    silent,  masked,   the  crowd   be 
tween, 

And  felt  to  doff  my  hat  and  kneel 
With  heart,  if  not  with  knee,  in  prayer, 
For  blessings  on  their  pious  care." 


The  Reader  wiped  his  glasses  :  "Friends 
of  mine, 

We'll  try  our  home-brewed  next,  in 
stead  of  foreign  wine." 

THE   CHANGELING. 

FOR  the  fairest  maid  in  Hampton 

They  needed  not  to  search, 
Who  saw  young  Anna  Favor 

Come  walking  into  church,  — 

Or  bringing  from  the  meadows, 

At  set  of  harvest-day, 
The  frolic  of  the  blackbirds, 

The  sweetness  of  the  hay. 

Now  the  weariest  of  all  mothers, 
The  saddest  two-years  bride, 

She  scowls  in  the  face  of  her  husband, 
And  spurns  her  child  aside. 

"  Rake  out  the  red  coals,  goodman,  — 
For  there  the  child  shall  He, 

Till  the  black  witch  comes  to  fetch  hei- 
And  both  up  chimney  fly. 

"It's  never  my  own  little  daughter, 
It 's  never  my  own,"  she  said  ; 

"The  witches  have  stolen  my  Anna, 
And  left  me  an  imp  instead. 

"  0,  fair  and  sweet  was  my  baby, 
Blue  eyes,  and  hair  of  gold  ; 

But  this  is  ugly  and  wrinkled, 
Cross,  and  cunning,  and  old. 

"  I  hate  the  touch  of  her  fingers, 

I  hate  the,  feel  of  her  skin  ; 
It's  not  the  milk  from  my  bosom, 

But  my  blood,  that  she  sucks  in. 

"  My  face  grows  sharp  with  the  torment,' 
Look  I  my  arms  are  skin  and  bone  !  — 

Rake  open  the  red  coals,  goodman, 
And  the  witch  shall  have  her  own. 

"  She  '11  come  when  she  hears  it  crying, 
In  the  shape  of  an  owl  or  bat, 

And  she  '11  bring  us  our  darling  Anna 
In  place  of  her  screeching  brat.'1 

Then  the  goodman,  Ezra  Dalton, 
Laid  his  hand  upon  her  head : 

"  Thy  sorrow  is  great,  O  woman  ! 
I  sorrow  with  thee,"  he  said. 


And  the  cloud  of  her  soul  was  lifted."     Page  305, 


THE   MAIDS   OF   ATTITASH. 


305 


"  The  paths  to  trouble  are  many, 
And  never  but  one  sure  way 

Leads  out  to  the  light  beyond  it : 
My  poor  wife,  let  us  pray." 

Then  he  said  to  the  great  All-Father, 
"Thy  daughter  is  weak  and  blind; 

Let  her  sight  come  back,  and  clothe  he 
Once  more  in  her  right  mind. 

"  Lead  her  out  of  this  evil  shadow, 

Out  of  these  fancies  wild  ; 
Let  the  holy  love  of  the  mother 

Turn  again  to  her  child. 

"  Make  her  lips  like  the  Ijps  of  Mary 

Kissing  her  blessed  Son  ; 
Let  her  hands,  like  the  hands  of  Jesus, 

Rest  on  her  little  one. 

"Comfort  the  soul  of  thy  handmaid, 

Open  her  prison-door, 
And  thine  shall  be  all  the  glory 

And  praise  forevermore. " 

Then  into  the  face  of  its  mother 
The  baby  looked  up  and  smiled  ; 

And  the  cloud  of  her  soul  was  lifted, 
And  she  knew  her  little  child. 

A  beam  of  the  slant  west  sunshine 
Made  the  wan  face  almost  fair, 

Lit  the  blue  eyes'  patient  wonder, 
And  the  rings  of  pale  gold  hair. 

She  kissed  it  on  lip  and  forehead, 
She  kissed  it  on  cheek  and  chin, 

And  she  bared  her  snow-white  bosom 
To  the  lips  so  pale  and  thin. 

0,  fair  on  her  bridal  morning 

Was  the  maid  who  blushed  and  smiled, 
But  fairer  to  Ezra  Dalton 

Looked  the  mother  of  his  child. 

With  more  than  a  lover's  fondness 
He  stooped  to  her  worn  young  face, 

And  the  nursing  child  and  the  mother 
He  folded  in  one  embrace. 

"  Blessed  be  God  !  "  he  murmured. 

"  Blessed  be  God  !  "  she  said  ; 
"  For  I  see,  who  once  was  blinded,  — 

I  live,  who  once  was  dead. 

"  Now  mount  and  ride,  my  goodmau 
As  thou  lovest  thy  own  soul ! 
20 


Woe  's  me,  if  my  wicked  fancies 
Be  the  death  of  Goody  Cole  ! ' 

His  horse  he  saddled  and  bridled, 
And  into  the  night  rode  he,  — 

Now  through  the  great  black  woodland. 
Now  by  the  white-beached  sea. 

He  rode  through  the  silent  clearings, 

He  came  to  the  ferry  wide, 
And  thrice  he  called  to  the  boatman 

Asleep  on  the  other  side. 

He  set  his  horse  to  the  river, 
He  swam  to  Newbury  town, 

And  he  called  up  Justice  Sewall 
In  his  nightcap  and  his  gown. 

And  the  grave  and  worshipful  justice 
(Upon  whose  soul  be  peace  !) 

Set  his  name  to  the  jailer's  warrant 
For  Goodwife  Cole's  release. 

Then  through  the  night  the  hoof-beats 

Went  sounding  like  a  flail  ; 
And  Goody  Cole  at  cockcrow 

Came  forth  from  Ipswich  jail. 


"  Here  is  a  rhyme  :  —  I  hardly  dare- 
To  venture  on  its  theme  worn  out ; 
What   seems   so  sweet  by  Doon  and 

Ayr 

Sounds  simply  silly  hereabout ; 
And  pipes  by  lips  Arcadian  blown 
Are  only  tin  horns  at  our  own. 
Yet   still   the  muse   of  pastoral   walks 

with  us^ 

While   Hosea    Biglow   sings,    our    new 
Theocritus." 


THE  MAIDS   OF   ATTITASH. 

IN  sky  and  wave  the  wThite  clouds  swam, 
And  the  blue  hills  of  Nottingham 
Through  gaps  of  leafy  green 
Across  the  lake  were  seen,  — 

When,  in  the  shadow  of  the  ash 
That  dreams  its  dream  in  Attitash, 

In  the  warm  summer  weather, 

Two  maidens  sat  together. 

They  sat  and  watched  in  idle  mood 
The    gleam    and    shade    of    lake    and 
wood,  — 


306 


THE   TENT   ON   THE   BEACH. 


The  beach  the  keen  light  smote, 
The  white  sail  of  a  boat,  — 

Swan  flocks  of  lilies  shoreward  lying, 
In  sweetness,  not  in  music,  dying,  — 
Hardhack,  and  virgin's-bower, 
And  white-spiked  clethra-flower. 

With  careless  ears  they  heard  the  plash 
And  breezy  wash  of  Attitash, 

The  wood-bird's  plaintive  cry, 

The  locust's  sharp  reply. 

And  teased  the  while,  with  playful  hand, 
The  shaggy  dog  of  Newfoundland, 

Whose  uncouth  frolic  spilled 

Their  baskets  berry-filled. 

Then  one,  the  beauty  of  whose  eyes 
Was  evermore  a  great  surprise, 
Tossed  back  her  queenly  head, 
And,  lightly  laughing,  said,  — 

"  No  bridegroom's  hand  be  mine  to  hold 
That  is  not  lined  with  yellow  gold  ; 

I  tread  no  cottage-floor  ; 

I  own  no  lover  poor. 

"  My  love  must  come  on  silken  wings, 
With  bridal  lights  of  diamond  rings,  — 

Not  foul  with  kitchen  smirch, 

With  tallow-dip  for  torch." 

The  other,  on  whose  modest  head 
Was  lesser  dower  of  beauty  shed, 

With  look  for  home-hearths  meet, 

And  voice  exceeding  sweet, 

Answered,  —  ''We  will  not  rivals  be  ; 

Take  thou  the  gold,  leave  love  to  me  ; 
Mine  be  the  cottage  small, 
And  thine  the  rich  man's  hall. 

"  T  know,  indeed,  that  wealth  is  good  ; 

But  lowly  roof  and  simple  food, 
With  love  that  hath  no  doubt, 
Are  more  than  gold  without." 

Hard  by  a  farmer  hale  and  young 
His  cradle  in  the  rye-field  swung, 
Tracking  the  yellow  plain 
With  windrows  of  ripe  grain. 

And  still,  whene'er  he  paused  to  whet 
His  scythe,  the  sidelong  glance  he  met 

Of  large  dark  eyes,  where  strove 

False  pride  and  secret  love. 


Be  strong,  young  mower  of  the  grain  ; 
That  love  shall  overmatch  disdain, 

Its  instincts  soon  or  late 

The  heart  shall  vindicate. 

In  blouse  of  gray,  with  fishing-rod, 
Half  screened  by  leaves,  a  stranger  trod 
The  margin  of  the  pond, 
Watching  the  group  beyond. 

The  supreme  hours  unnoted  come  ; 

Unfelt  the  turning  tides  of  doom  ; 
And  so  the  maids  laughed  on, 
Nor  dreamed  what  Fate  had  done,  — 

Nor  knew  the  step  was  Destiny's 
That  rustled  in  the  birchen  trees, 

As,  with  their  lives  forecast, 

Fisher  and  mower  passed. 

Erelong  by  lake  and  rivulet  side 
The  summer  roses  paled  and  died, 

And  Autumn's  fingers  shed 

The  maple's  leaves  of  red. 

Through  the  long  gold-hazed  afternoon, 
Alone,  but  for  the  diving  loon, 
The  partridge  in  the  brake, 
The  black  duck  on  the  lake, 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  ash 
Sat  man  and  maid  by  Attitash ; 
And  earth  and  air  made  room 
For  human  hearts  to  bloom. 

Soft  spread  the  carpets  of  the  sod, 
And  scarlet-oak  and  golden-rod 

With  blushes  and  with  smiles 

Lit  lip  the  forest  aisles. 

The  mellow  light  the  lake  aslant, 
The  pebbled  margin's  ripple-chant 

Attempered  and  low-toned, 

The  tender  mystery  owned. 

And    through    the    dream    the    lovers 

dreamed 
Sweet   sounds  stole   in   and  soft  lights 

streamed  ; 

The  sunshine  seemed  to  bless, 
The  air  was  a  caress. 

Not  she  who  lightly  laughed  is  there, 
With  scornful  toss  of  midnight  hair, 

Her  dark,  disdainful  eye% 

And  proud  lip  worldly-wise. 


KALLUNDBORG   CHURCH. 


307 


Her  haughty  vow  is  still  unsaid, 

But  all  she  dreamed  and  coveted 

Wears,  half  to  her  surprise, 

The  youthful  farmer's  guise  ! 

With  more  than  all  her  old-time  pride 
She  walks  the  rye-field  at  his  side, 

Careless  of  cot  or  hall, 

Since  love  transfigures  all. 

Rich     beyond     dreams,    the     vantage- 
ground 
Of  life  is  gained  ;   her  hands  have  found 

The  talisman  of  old 

That  changes  all  to  gold. 

While  she  who  could  for  love  dispense 
With  all  its  glittering  accidents, 
And  trust  her  heart  alone, 
Finds  love  and  gold  her  own. 

What  wealth  can  buy  or  art  can  build 
Awaits  her  ;  but  her  cup  is  filled 

Even  now  unto  the  brim  ; 

Her  world  is  love  and  him  ! 


The  while  he  heard,  the   Book -man 

drew 

A  length  of  make-believing  face, 
With    smothered    mischief    laughing 

through  : 
"Why,  you  shall  sit  in  Ramsay's 

place, 

And,  with  his  Gentle  Shepherd,  keep 
On  Yankee  hills  immortal  sheep, 
While  lovelorn   swains   and   maids   the 

seas  beyond 

Hold  dreamy  tryst  around  your  huckle 
berry-pond." 

The   Traveller  laughed;  "Sir  Gala 
had 

Singing  of  love  the  Trouvere's  lay  ! 
How   should  he  know  the  blindfold 
^  lad 
From  one  of  Vulcan's  forge-boys  ?  " 

—  "  Nay, 

He  better  sees  who  stands  outside 

Than  they  who  in  procession  ride," 

The  Reader  answered  :  "  selectmen  and 

squire 

Miss,  while  they  make,  the  show  that 
wayside  folks  admire. 

"  Here  is  a  wild  tale  of  the  North, 
Our  travelled  friend  will  own  as 
one 


Fit  for  a  Norland  Christmas  hearth 

And  lips  of  Christian  Andersen. 
They  tell  it  in  the  valleys  green 
Of  the  fair  island  he  has  seen, 
Low  lying    oil'   the    pleasant  Swedish 

shore, 

Washed  by  the  Baltic  Sea,  and  watched 
by  Elsinore." 


KALLTJNDBORG  CHURCH. 

"Tiestille,  barn  min  ! 
Imorgen  kommer  Fin , 
Fa'er  din, 

Og  gi'er  dig  Esbcrn  Snares  bine  og  hjerte  at  lego 
med !  " 

Zealand  Rhyme. 

"  BUILD  at  Kallundborg  by  the  sea 
A  church  as  stately  as  church  may  be, 
And  there  shalt  thou  wed  my  daughter 

fair," 
Said  the    Lord  of    Nesvek  to   Esbern 

Snare. 

And  the  Baron  laughed.     But  Esbern 

said, 
"Though  I  lose  my  soul,  I  will  Helva 

wed  ! " 

And  off  he  strode,  in  his  pride  of  will, 
To  the  Troll  who  dwelt  in  Ulshoi  hill. 

"  Build,  0  Troll,  a  church  for  me 
At  Kallundborg  by  the  mighty  sea  ; 
Build  it  stately,  and  build  it  fair, 
Build  it  quickly,"  said  Esbern  Snare. 

But  the  sly  Dwarf  said,    "No  work  is 

wrought 
By    Trolls    of   the  Hills,  0    man,  for 

naught. 
What  wilt  thou  give  for  thy  church  so 

fair  ? " 
"Set   thy   own    price,"    quoth   Esbern 

Snare. 

"  When  Kallundborg  church  is  builded 

well, 

Thou  must  the  name  of  its  builder  tell, 
Or  thy  heart  and  thy  eyes  must  be  my 

boon." 
"Build,"  said  Esbern,   "and  build  it 

soon." 

By  night  and  by  day  the  Troll  wrought 

on  ; 
He  hewed  the   timbers,    he  piled  the 

stone  ; 


308 


THE  TENT   ON   THE  BEACH. 


But  day  by  day,  as  the  walls  rose  fair, 
Darker  and  sadder  grew  Esbern  Snare. 

He  listened  by  night,  he  watched  by  day, 
He  sought  and  thought,  but  he  dared 

not  pray  ; 

In  vain  he  called  on  the  Elle-maids  shy, 
And  the  Neck  and  the  Nis  gave  110 

reply. 

Of  his  evil  bargain  far  and  wide 
A  rumor  ran  through  the  country-side  ; 
And  Helva  of  Nesvek,  young  and  fair, 
Prayed  for  the  soul  of  Esbern  Snare. 

And  now  the  church  was  wellnigh  done  ; 
One  pillar  it  lacked,  and  one  alone  ; 
And   the  grim   Troll   muttered,    "Fool 

thou  art  ! 
To-morrow     gives    me    thy    eyes    and 

heart  !  " 

By  Kallundborg  in  black  despair, 
Through    wood    and    meadow,    walked 

Esbern  Snare, 
Till,  worn  and  weary,  the  strong  man 

sank 
Under  the  birches  on  Ulshoi  bank. 

At   his   last   day's   work    he  heard  the 

Troll 

Hammer  and  delve  in  the  quarry's  hole  ; 
Before  him  the  church  stood  large  and 

fair  : 
"  I  have  builded  my  tomb,"  said  Esbern 

Snare. 

And  he  closed  his  eyes  the  sight  to  hide, 
When  he  heard  a  light  step  at  his  side : 
"  0  Esbern  Snare  !  "  a  sweet  voice  said, 
•'  Would  I  might  die  now  in  thy  stead  !  " 

With  a  grasp  by  love  and  by  fear  made 

strong, 

He  held  her  fast,  and  he  held  her  long  ; 
With  the  beating  heart  of  a  bird  afeanl, 
She  hid  her  face  in  his  flame-red  beard. 

"0  love  !  "  he  cried,  "let  me  look  to 
day 

1  n  thine  eyes  ere  mine  are  plucked  aAvay  ; 

Let  me  hold  thee  close,  let  me  feel  thy 
heart 

Ere  mine  by  the  Troll  is  torn  apart  ! 

"  I  sinned,  0  H<jlva,  for  love  of  thee  \ 
Pray  that  the  Lord  Christ  pardon  ine  !  " 


But  fast  as  she  prayed,  and  faster  still, 
Hammered  the  Troll  in  Ulshoi  hill. 

He  knew,  as  he  wrought,  that  a  loving 

heart 

Was  somehow  baffling  his  evil  art  ; 
For  more  than  spell  of  Elf  or  Troll 
Is  a  maiden's  prayer  for  her  lover's  soul. 

And    Esbern   listened,  and  caught   thai 

sound 

Of  a  Troll- wife  singing  underground  : 
"To-morrow  comes  Fine,  father  thine  : 
Lie  still  and  hush  thee,  baby  mine  ! 

"  Lie  still,  my  darling  !  next  sunrise 
Thou  'It  play  with  Esbern  Snare's  heart 

and  eyes  ! " 
"Ho!    ho!"    quoth  Esbern,    "is   that 

your  game  ? 
Thanks   to   the  Troll-wife,   I  know  his 

name  !  " 

The  Troll  he  heard  him,  and  hurried  on 

To  Kallundborg  church  with  the  lack 
ing  stone. 

"  Too  late,  Gaffer  Fine  !  "  cried  Esbern 
Snare  ; 

And  Troll  and  pillar  vanished  in  air  ! 

That   night   the    harvesters   heard   the 

sound 

Of  a  woman  sobbing  underground, 
And  the  voice  of  the  Hill-Troll  loud 

with  blame 
Of    the   careless   singer    who   told   his 

name. 

Of  the  Troll  of  the  Church  they  sing  the 

rune 
By   the   Northern   Sea   in   the  harvest 

moon  ; 
And   the   fishers   of  Zealand  hear  him 

still 
Scolding  his  wife  in  Ulshoi  hill. 

And  seaward  over  its  groves  of  birch 
Still   looks  the   tower   of  Kallundborg 

church, 

Where,  first  at  its  altar,  a  wedded  pair, 
Stood    Helva   of    Nesvek    and    Esbern 

Snare  ! 


What,"  asked  the  Traveller,  "would 

our  sires, 
The  old  Norse  story-tellers,  say 


THE  DEAD   SHIP   OF   HARPSWELL. 


309 


Of  sun-graved  pictures,  ocean  wires, 

And  smoking  steamboats  of  to-day  ? 
And  this,  O  lady,  by  your  leave, 
Recalls  your  song  of  yester  eve  : 
1ray,  let  us  have  that  Cable-hymn  once 

more." 

*'  Hear,    hear  !  "  the   Book-man   cried, 
"  the  lady  has  the  floor. 

"  These  noisy  waves  below  perhaps 

To  such  a  strain  will  lend  their  ear, 
With  softer  voice  and  lighter  lapse 

Come  stealing  up  the  sands  to  hear, 
And  what  they  once  refused  to  do 
For  old  King  Knut  accord  to  you. 
Nay,  even  the  iishes  shall  your  listeners 

be, 

As  once,  the  legend  runs,  they  heard 
St.  Anthony." 


0  lonely  bay  of  Trinity, 

0  dreary  shores,  give  ear  ! 
Lean  down  unto  the  white-lipped  sea 

The  voice  of  God  to  hear  ! 

From  world  to  world  his  couriers  fly, 
Thought-winged  and  shod  with  fire  ; 

The  angel  of  His  stormy  sky 
Rides  down  the  sunken  wire. 

What  saith  the  herald  of  the  Lord  ? 

"  The  world's  long  strife  is  done  ; 
Close  wedded  by  that  mystic  cord, 

Its  continents  are  one. 

"And  one  in  heart,  as  one  in  blood, 

Shall  all  her  peoples  be  ; 
The  hands  of  human  brotherhood 

Are  clasped  beneath  the  sea. 

"Through  Orient  seas,  o'er  Afric's  plain 
And  Asian  mountains  borne, 

The  vigor  of  the  Northern  brain 
Shall  nerve  the  world  outworn. 

"  From   clime  to  clime,  from  shore  to 
shore, 

Shall  thrill  the  magic  thread  ; 
The  new  Prometheus  steals  once  more 

The  tire  that  wakes  the  dead." 

Throb   on,    strong    pulse  of   thunder ! 
beat 

From  answering  beach  to  beach  ; 
Fuse  nations  in  thy  kindly  heat, 

And  melt  the  chains  of  each  ! 


Wild  terror  of  the  sky  above, 
Glide  tamed  and  dumb  below  ! 

Bear  gently,  Ocean's  carrier-dove, 
Thy  errands  to  and  fro. 

Weave  on,  swift  shuttle  of  the  Lord, 

Beneath  the  deep  so  far, 
The  bridal  robe  of  earth's  accord, 

The  funeral  shroud  of  war  ! 

For  lo  !  the  fall  of  Ocean's  wall 
Space  mocked  and  time  outrun  ; 

And  round  the  world  the  thought  of  all 
Is  as  the  thought  of  one  ! 

The  poles  unite,  the  zones  agree, 
The  tongues  of  striving  cease  ; 

As  on  the  Sea  of  Galilee 

The  Christ  is  whispering,  Peace  ! 


"  Glad  prophecy  !  to  this  at  last," 
The  Reader  said,  "  shall  all  things 

come. 
Forgotten  be  the  bugle's  blast, 

And  battle-music  of  the  drum. 
A  little  while  the  world  may  run 
Its  old  mad  way,  with  needle-gun 
And  iron-clad,  but  truth,  at  last,  shall 

reign  : 
The  cradle-song  of  Christ  was  never  sung 


Shifting  his  scattered  papers,  "Here," 
He  said,  as  died  the  faint  applause, 
"  Is  something  that  I  found  last  year 
Down  on  the  island  known  as  Orr's. 
I  had  it  from  a  fair-haired  girl 
Who,  oddly,  bore  the  name  of  Pearl, 
(As  if  by  some  droll  freak   of  circum 
stance,) 

Classic,    or    wellnigh    so,    in     Harriet 
Stowe's  •  romance. " 


THE 


DEAD     SHIP    OF    HARPS- 
WELL. 


WHAT  flecks  the  outer  gray  beyond 

The  sundown's  golden  trail  ? 
The  white  flash  of  a  sea-bird's  wing, 

Or  gleam  of  slanting  sail  ? 
Let  young  eyes  watch  from  Neck  and 
Point, 

And  sea-worn  elders  pray,  — 
The  ghost  of  what  was  once  a  ship 

Is  sailing  up  the  bay  ! 


310 


THE   TENT   ON   THE   BEACH. 


From  gray  sea-fog,  from  icy  drift, 

From  peril  and  from  pain, 
Tlie  home-bound  fisher  greets  thy  lights, 

0  hundred-harbored  Maine  ! 
But  many  a  keel  shall  seaward  turn, 

And  many  a  sail  outstand, 
When,  tall  and  white,  the  Dead  Ship 
looms 

Against  the  dusk  of  land. 

She    rounds    the    headland's    bristling 
pines  ; 

She  threads  the  isle-set  bay  ; 
No  spur  of  breeze  can  speed  her  on, 

Nor  ebb  of  tide  delay. 
Old  men  still  walk  the  Isle  of  Orr 

Who  tell  her  date  and  name, 
Old  shipwrights  sit  in  Freeport  yards 

Who  hewed  her  oaken  frame. 

What  weary  doom  of  baffled  quest, 

Thou  sad  sea-ghost,  is  thine  ? 
What   makes  thee    in    the    haunts  of 
home 

A  wonder  and  a  sign  ? 
No  foot  is  on  thy  silent  deck, 

Upon  thy  helm  no  hand  ; 
No  ripple  hath  the  soundless  wind 

That  smites  thee  from  the  land  ! 

For  never  comes  the  ship  to  port, 

Howe'cr  the  breeze  may  be  ; 
Just  when  she  nears  the  waiting  shore 

She  drifts  again  to  sea. 
No  tack  of  sail,  nor  turn  of  helm, 

Nor  sheer  of  veering  side  ; 
Stern-fore  she  drives  to  sea  and  night, 

Against  the  wind  and  tide. 

In  vain  o'er  Harps  well  Neck  the  star 

Of  evening  guides  her  in  ; 
In  vain  for  her  the  lamps  are  lit 

Within  thy  tower,  Seguin  ! 
In  vain  the  harbor-boat  shall  hail, 

In  vain  the  pilot  call  ; 
No  hand  shall  reef  her  spectral  sail, 

Or  let  her  anchor  fall. 

Shake,   brown    old  wives,   with  dreary 
joy, 

Your  gray -head  hints  of  ill ; 
And,  over  sick-beds  whispering  low, 

Your  prophecies  fulfil. 
Some  home  amid  yon  birchen  trees 

Shall  drape  its  door  with  woe  ; 
And  slowly  where  the  Dead  Ship  sails, 

The  burial  boat  shall  row  ! 


From  Wolf  Neck  and  from  Flying  Point 

From  island  and  from  main, 
From  sheltered  cove  and  tided  creek, 

Shall  glide  the  funeral  train. 
The  dead-boat  with  th'j  bearers  four, 

The  mourners  at  her  stern,  — 
And  one  shall  go  the  silent  wa^v 

Who  shall  no  more  return  ! 

And  men  shall  sigh,  and  women  weep, 

Whose  dear  ones  pale  and  pine, 
And  sadly  over  sunset  seas 

Await  the  ghostly  sign. 
They  know  not  that  its  sails  are  filled 

By  pity's  tender  breath, 
Nor  see  the  Angel  at  the  helm 

Who  steers  the  Ship  of  Death  I 


"Chill  as  a  down-east  breeze  should 

be," 
The  Book -man  said.      "A  ghostly 

touch 
The  legend  has.     I  'm  glad  to  see 

Your  flying  Yankee  beat  the  Dutch." 
"Well,    here    is    something   of    the 

sort 

Which  one  midsummer  day  I  caught 
In  Narragansett  Bay,  for  lack  offish." 
"  We  wait,"  the  Traveller  said  ;  "  serve 
hot  or  cold  your  dish." 


THE   PALATINE. 

LEAGUES    north,    as   fly  the   gull    and 

auk, 

Point  Judith  watches  with  eye  of  hawk  ; 
Leagues  south,  thy  beacon  flames,  Mon- 

tauk  ! 

Lonely  and  wind-shorn,  wood-forsaken, 
With  never  a  tree  for  Spring  to  waken, 
For  tryst  of  lovers  or  farewells  taken, 

Circled  by  waters  that  never  freeze, 
Beaten  by  billow  and  swept  by  breeze, 
Licth  the  island  of  Manisees, 

Set  at  the  mouth  of  the  Sound  to  hold 
The  coast  lights  up  on  its  turret  old, 
Yellow  with  moss  and  sea-fog  mould. 

Dreary  the  land  when  gust  and  sleet 
At   its   doors   and  window's   howl    and 

beat, 
And  Winter  laughs  at  its  fires  of  peat ! 


THE   PALATINE. 


311 


But  in   summer  time,   when   pool   and 

pond, 

Held  in  the  laps  of  valleys  fond, 
Are  blue  as  the  glimpses  of  sea  beyond  ; 

When  the  hills  are  sweet  with  the  brier- 
rose, 

And,  hid  in  the  warm,  soft  dells,  unclose 
Flowers  the  mainland  rarely  knows  ; 

When  boats  to  their  morning  fishing  go, 
And,  held  to  the  wind  and  slanting  low, 
Whitening  and  darkening  the  small  sails 
show,  — 

Then  is  that  lonely  island  fair  ; 

And  the  pale  health-seeker  findeth  there 

The  wine  of  life  in  its  pleasant  air. 

No  greener  valleys  the  sun  invite, 
On  smoother  beaches  no  sea-birds  light, 
No    blue  waves  shatter  to   foam   more 
white  ! 

There,  circling  ever  their  narrow  range, 
Quaint  tradition  and  legend  strange 
Live   on   unchallenged,    and    know   no 
change. 

Old  wives  spinning  their  webs  of  tow, 

Or  rocking  weirdly  to  and  fro 

In  and  out  of  the  peat's  dull  glow, 

And   old   men    mending   their   nets   of 

twine, 

Talk  together  of  dream  and  sign, 
Talk  of  the  lost  ship  Palatine,  — 

The  ship  that,  a  hundred  years  before, 
Freighted  deep  with  its  goodly  store, 
In  the  gales  of  the  equinox  went  ashore. 

The  eager  islanders  one  by  one 
Counted  the  shots  of  her  signal  gun, 
And   heard  the  crash  when  she  drove 
right  on  ! 

Into  the  teeth  of  death  she  sped  : 
(May  God  forgive  the  hands  that  fed 
The  false  lights  over  the  rocky  Head  !) 

0  men  and  brothers  !  what  sights  were 

there  ! 
White  upturned  faces,  hands  stretched 

in  prayer  ! 
Where   waves   had   pity,    cou/d  ye  not 

spare  ? 


Down  swooped  the  wreckers,  like  birds 

of  prey 

Tearing  the  heart  of  the  ship  away, 
And  the  dead  had  never  a  word  to  say. 

And  then,   with  ghastly  shimmer  and 

shine 

Over  the  rocks  and  the  seething  brine, 
They  burned  the  wreck  of  the  Palatine. 

In  their  cruel  hearts,  as  they  homeward 

sped, 
"The  sea  and   the   rocks   are   dumb," 

they  said  : 
"There'll   be  no   reckoning  with   the 

dead. " 

But   the   year  went   round,    and  when 

once  more 

Along  their  foarn-white  curves  of  shore 
They  heard  the  line-storm  rave  and  roar, 

Behold  !  again,  with  shimmer  and  shine, 
Over  the  rocks  and  the  seething  brine, 
The  flaming  wreck  of  the  Palatine  ! 

So,  haply  in  fitter  words  than  these, 
Mending   their   nets    on   their    patient 

knees 
They  tell  the  legend  of  Manisees. 

Nor  looks  nor  tones  a  doubt  betray  ; 
"It  is  known  to  us  all,"  they  quietly 

say; 
"  We  too  have  seen  it  in  our  day." 

Is  there,  then,  110  death  for  a  word  once 

spoken  ? 

Was  never  a  deed  but  left  its  token 
Written  on  tables  never  broken  ? 

Do  the  elements  subtle  reflections  give  ? 
Do  pictures  of  all  the  ages  live 
On  Nature's  infinite  negative, 

Which,  half  in  sport,  in  malice  half, 
She  shows  at  times,    with  shudder   or 

laugh, 
Phantom  and  shadow  in  photograph  ? 

For  still,  on  many  a  moonless  night, 
From  Kingston  Head  and  from  Montauk 

light 
The  spectre  kindles  and  burns  in  sight. 

Now  low  and  dim,  now  clear  and  higher, 
Leaps  up  the  terrible  Ghost  of  Fire, 
Then,  slowly  sinking,  the  flames  expire. 


312 


THE  TENT   ON   THE   BEACH. 


And  the  wise  Sound  skippers,  though 

skies  be  fine, 

Reef  their  sails  when  they  see  the  sign 
Of  the  blazing  wreck  of  the  Palatine  ! 


"  A  fitter  tale  to  scream  than  sing," 
The  Book-man  said.      "  Well,  fan 
cy,  then," 

The  Reader  answered,  "  on  the  wing 
The   sea-birds   shriek   it,    not   for 

men, 

But  in  the  ear  of  wave  and  breeze  !  " 
The  Traveller  mused:   "Your  Mani- 

sees 

Is  fairy-land  :  off  Narragarisett  shore 
Who  ever  saw  the  isle  or  heard  its  name 
before  ? 

"  'T  is  some  strange  land  of  Flyaway, 
Whose  dreamy  shore  the  ship  be 
guiles, 
St.  Brandan's  in  its  sea-mist  gray, 

Or  sunset  loom  of  Fortunate  Isles  ! " 
"  No  ghost,  but  solid  turf  and  rock 
Is  the  good  island  known  as  Block," 
The  Reader  said.      "  For  beauty  and  for 

ease 

I  chose  its  Indian  name,   soft -flowing 
Manisees ! 

"  But  let  it  pass  ;  here  is  a  bit 

Of  um-hymed  story,  with  a  hint 
Of  the  old  preaching  mood  in  it, 

The  sort  of  sidelong  moral  squint 
Our    friend    objects    to,    which    has 

grown, 

I  fear,  a  habit  of  my  own. 
'Twas  written  when 'the  Asian  plague 

drew  near, 

And  the  land  held  its  breath  and  paled 
with  sudden  fear." 


ABRAHAM    DAVENPORT. 

IN  the  old  days  (a  custom  laid  aside 
With  breeches  and  cocked  hats)  the  peo 
ple  sent 
Their  wisest  men  to  make  the  public 

laws. 
And  so,  from  a  brown  homestead,  where 

the  Sound 

Drinks  the  small  tribute  of  the  Mianas, 
Waved  over  by  the  woods  of  Rippowams, 
And  hallowed  by  pure  lives  and  tranquil 
deaths, 


Stamford  sent  up  to  the  councils  of  the 
State 

Wisdom  and  grace  in  Abraham  Daven 
port. 

'T  was  on  a  May-day  of  the  far  old 
year 

Seventeen  hundred  eighty,  that  there 
fell 

Over  the  bloom  and  sweet  life  of  the 
Spring, 

Over  the  fresh  earth  and  the  heaven  of 
noon, 

A  horror  of  great  darkness,  like  the 
night 

In  day  of  which  the  Norland  sagas 
tell,  — 

The  Twilight  of  the  Gods.  The  low- 
hung  sky 

Was  black  with  ominous  clouds,  save 
where  its  rim 

Was  fringed  with  a  dull  glow,  like  that 
which  climbs 

The  crater's  sides  from  the  red  hell  be 
low. 

Birds  ceased  to  sing,  and  all  the  barn 
yard  fowls 

Roosted ;  the  cattle  at  the  pasture 
bars 

Lowed,  and  looked  homeward  ;  bats  on 
leathern  wings 

Flitted  abroad ;  the  sounds  of  labor 
died  ; 

Men  prayed,  and  women  wept ;  all  eara 
grew  sharp 

To  hear  the  doom-blast  of  the  trumpet 
shatter 

The  black  sky,  that  the  dreadful  face  of 
Christ 

Might  look  from  the  rent  clouds,  not  «.s 
he  looked 

A  loving  guest  at  Bethany,  but  stern 

As  Justice  and  inexorable  Law. 

Meanwhile  in  the  old  State  House, 
dim  as  ghosts, 

Sat  the  lawgivers  of  Connecticut, 

Trembling  beneath  their  legislative 
robes. 

"It  is  the  Lord's  Great  Day  !  Let  us 
adjourn," 

Some  said ;  and  then,  as  if  with  one 
"accord, 

All  eyes  were  turned  to  Abraham  Daven 
port. 

He  rose,  slow  cleaving  with  his  steady 


THE   TENT   ON   THE   BEACH. 


313 


The  intolerable  hush.      "  This  well  may 

be 
The  Day  of  Judgment  which  the  world 

awaits  ; 

But  be  it  so  or  not,  1  only  know 
My  present  duty,  and  my  Lord's  com 
mand 

To  occupy  till  he  come.  So  at  the  post 
Where  he  hath  set  me  in  his  providence, 
1  choose,  for  one,  to  meet  him  face  to 

face,  — 
No  faithless  servant  frightened  from  my 

task, 
But  ready  when  the  Lord  of  the  harvest 

calls  ; 
And    therefore,    with    all    reverence,    I 

would  say, 
Let  God  do  his  work,  we  will  see  to 

ours. 
Bring    in    the    candles."       And     they 

brought  them  in. 

Then  by  the  flaring  lights  the  Speaker 
read, 

Albeit  with  husky  voice  and  shaking 
hands, 

An  act  to  amend  an  act  to  regulate 

The  shad  and  alewive  fisheries.  Where 
upon 

Wisely  and  well  spake  Abraham  Daven 
port, 

Straight  to  the  question,  with  no  figures 
of  speech 

Save  the  ten  Arab  signs,  yet  not  without 

The  shrewd  dry  humor  natural  to  the 
man  : 

His  awe-struck  colleagues  listening  all 
the  while, 

Between  the  pauses  of  his  argument, 

To  hear  the  thunder  of  the  wrath  of 
God 

Break  from  the  hollow  trumpet  of  the 
cloud. 

And  there  lie  stands  in   memory  to 

this  day, 
Erect,   self- poised,    a  rugged   face,   half 

seen 
Against   the    background  of  unnatural 

dark, 

A  witness  to  the  ages  as  they  pass, 
That  simple  duty  hath  no  place  for  fear. 


He     ceased  :    just    then    the    ocean 

seemed 
To  lift  a  half-faced  moon  in  sight  ; 


And,    shore-ward,    o'er    the    watt-it 

gleamed, 

From  crest  to  crest,  a  line  of  light, 
Such  as  of  old,  with  solemn  awe, 
The  fishers  by  Gennesaret  saw, 
When  dry-shod  o'er  it  walked  the  Sor. 

of  God, 

Tracking  the  waves  with  light  where'er, 
his  sandals  trod. 

Silently  for  a  space  each  eye 

Upon  that  sudden  glory  turned  : 
Cool  from  the  land  the  breeze  bi3Vv 

H 

The   tent-ropes    flapped,    the   long 

beach  churned 

Its  waves  to  foam  ;  on  either  hand 
Stretched,  far  as  sight,    the  hills  of 

sand  ; 
With  bays  of  marsh,  and  capes  of  bush 

and  tree, 

The  wood's  black  shore-line  loomed  be 
yond  the  meadowy  sea. 

The  lady  rose  to  leave.      "  One  song, 
Or  hymn,"  they  urged,  "  before  we 

part." 
And  she,  with  lips  to  which  belong 

Sweet  intuitions  of  all  art, 
Gave  to  the  winds  of  night  a  strain 
Which  they  who  heard  would  hear 

again  ; 

And  to  her  voice  the  solemn  ocean  lent, 
Touching  its  harp  of  sand,  a  deep  ac 
companiment. 


The  harp  at  Nature's  advent  strung 

Has  never  ceased  to  play  ; 
The  song  the  stars  of  morning  sung 

Has  never  died  away. 

And  prayer  is  made,  and  praise  is  given, 

By  all  things  near  and  far  ; 
The  ocean  looketh  up  to  heaven, 

And  mirrors  every  star. 

Its  waves  are  kneeling  on  the  strand, 

As  kneels  the  human  knee, 
Their  white  locks  bowing  to  the  sand, 

The  priesthood  of  the  sea  ! 

They    pour    their    glittering    treasures 
forth, 

Their  gifts  of  pearl  they  bring, 
And  all  the  listening  hills  of  earth 

Take  up  the  song  they  sing. 


314 


NATIONAL   LYRICS. 


The  green  earth  sends  her  incense  up 
From  many  a  mountain  shrine  ; 

From  folded  leaf  and  dewy  cup 
She  pours  her  sacred  wine. 

The  mists  above  the  morning  rills 
Rise  white  as  wings  of  prayer ; 

The  altar-curtains  of  the  hills 
Are  sunset's  purple  air. 

The  winds  with  hymns  of  praise  are  loud, 
Or  low  with  sobs  of  pain,  — 

The  thunder-organ  of  the  cloud, 
The  dropping  tears  of  rain. 

With  droopinghead  and  branches  crossed 

The  twilight  forest  grieves, 
Or  speaks  with  tongues  of  Pentecost 

From  all  its  sunlit  leaves. 

The  blue  sky  is  the  temple's  arch, 

Its  transept  earth  and  air, 
The  music  of  its  starry  march 

The  chorus  of  a  prayer. 

So  Nature  keeps  the  reverent  frame 
"With  which  her  years  began, 


And  all  her  signs  and  voices  shame 
The  prayerless  heart  of  man. 


The  singer  ceased.     The  moon's  white 

rays 

Fell  on  the  rapt,  still  face  of  her. 
"  Allah  il  Allah!     He  hath  praise 

From  all  things,"  said  the  Traveller,, 
"Oft  from  the  desert's  silent  nights, 
And  mountain  hymns  of  sunset  lights., 
My  heart  has  felt  rebuke,  as  in  his  tent 
The  Moslem's   prayer   has   shamed  my 
Christian  knee  unbent." 

He  paused,  and  lo  !  far,  faint,  and  slow 
The   bells    in    Newbury's    steeples 

tolled 
The    twelve  dead   hours ;    the   lamp 

burned  low ; 

The  singer  sought  her  canvas  fold. 
One  sadly  said,  "  At  break  of  day 
We  strike  our  tent  and  go  our  way." 
But  one  made  answer  cheerily,    ' '  Never 

fear, 

We'll  pitch  this  tent  of  ours  in  type 
another  year." 


NATIONAL    LYRICS. 


THE  MANTLE   OF  ST.   JOHN    DE 
MATHA. 

A   LEGEND   OF    "THE   RED,  WHITE,  AND 
BLUE,"    A.    D.    1154-1864. 

A  STRONG  and  mighty  Angel,  ^ 

Calm,  terrible,  and  bright, 
The  ^ross  in  blended  red  and  blue 

Upon  his  mantle  white  ! 

Two  captives  by  him  kneeling, 

Each  on  his  broken  chain, 
Sang  praise  to  God  who  raiseth 

The  dead  to  life  again  ! 


Dropping  his  cross-wrought  mantle, 

"Wear  this,"  the  Angel  said  ; 
'Take  thou,    0    Freedom's  priest, 

sign,  — 
The  white,  the  blue,  and  red." 


its 


Then  rose  up  John  de  Matha 

In  the  strength  the  Lord  Christ  gave, 
And  begged  through  all  the  land  of 
France 

The  ransom  of  the  slave. 

The  gates  of  tower  and  castle 

Before  him  open  flew, 
The  drawbridge  at  his  coining  fell, 

The  door-bolt  backward  drew. 

For  all  men  owned  his  errand, 
And  paid  his  righteous  tax  ; 

And  the  hearts  of  lord  and  peasant 
Were  in  his  hands  as  wax. 

At  last,  outbound  from  Tunis, 
His  bark  her  anchor  weighed, 

Freighted    with    seven-score    Christian 

souls 
Whose  ransom  he  had  paid. 


WHAT  THE   BIKDS   SAID. 


315 


But,  torn  by  Payiiim  hatred, 

Her  sails  in  tatters  hung  ; 
And  on  the  wild  waves,  rudderless, 

A  shattered  hulk  she  swung. 

"  God  save  us  !"  cried  the  captain, 
"  For  naught  can  man  avail ; 

0,  woe  betide  the  ship  that  lacks 
Her  rudder  and  her  sail  ! 

"  Behind  us  are  the  Moormen  ; 

At  sea  we  sink  or  strand  : 
There's  death  upon  the  water, 

There's  death  upon  the  land  ! " 

Then  up  spake  John  de  Matha : 

"  God's  errands  never  fail  ! 
Take  thou  the  mantle  which  I  wear, 

And  make  of  it  a  sail." 

They  raised  the  cross- wrought  mantle, 
The  blue,  the  white,  the  red  ; 

And  straight  before  the  wind  off-shore 
The  ship  of  Freedom  sped. 

"God  help  us  !  "  cried  the  seamen, 

"  For  vain  is  mortal  skill  : 
The  good  ship  on  a  stormy  sea 
Is  drifting  at  its  will." 

Then  up  spake  John  de  Matha  : 

"  My  mariners,  never  fear  ! 
The  Lord  whose  breath  has  filled  her  sail 

May  well  our  vessel  steer  ! " 

So  on  through  storm  and  darkness 
They  drove  for  weary  hours  ; 

And  lo  !  the  third  gray  morning  shone 
On  Ostia's  friendly  towers. 

And  on  the  walls  the  watchers 

The  ship  of  mercy  knew,  — 
They  knew  far  off  its  holy  cross, 

The  red,  the  white,  and  blue. 

And  the  bells  in  all  the  steeples 

Rang  out  in  glad  accord, 
To  welcome  home  to  Christian  soil 

The  ransomed  of  the  Lord. 

So  runs  the  ancient  legend 

By  bard  and  painter  told  ; 
And  lo  !  the  cycle  rounds  again, 

The  new  is  as  the  old  ! 

With  rudder  foully  broken, 
And  sails  by  traitors  torn, 


Our  country  on  a  midnight  sea 
Is  waiting  for  the  morn. 

Before  her,  nameless  terror  ; 

Behind,  the  pirate  foe ; 
The  clouds  are  black  above  her, 

The  sea  is  white  below. 

The  hope  of  all  who  suffer, 
The  dread  of  all  who  wrong, 

She  drifts  in  darkness  and  in  storm, 
How  long,  0  Lord  !  how  long  ? 

But  courage,  0  my  mariners  ! 

Ye  shall  not  suffer  wreck, 
While  up  to  God  the  freedman's  prayers 

Are  rising  from  your  deck. 

Is  not  your  sail  the  banner 
Which  God  hath  blest  anew, 

The  mantle  that  De  Matha  wore, 
The  red,  the  white,  the  blue  ? 

Its  hues  are  all  of  heaven,  — 

The  red  of  sunset's  dye, 
The  whiteness  of  the  moon-lit  cloud, 

The  blue  of  morning's  sky. 

Wait  cheerily,  then,  0  mariners, 

For  daylight  and  for  land  ; 
The  breath  of  God  is  in  your  sail, 

Your  rudder  is  His  hand. 

Sail  on,  sail  on,  deep-freighted 
With  blessings  and  with  hopes  ; 

The  saints  of  old  with  shadowy  hands 
Are  pulling  at  your  ropes. 

Behind  ye  holy  martyrs 

Uplift  the  palm  and  crown  ; 

Before  ye  unborn  ages  send 
Their  benedictions  down. 

Take  heart  from  John  de  Matha  !  — 

God's  errands  never  fail ! 
Sweep  on  through  storm  and  darkness, 

The  thunder  and  the  hail ! 

Sail  on  !     The  morning  cometh, 

The  port  ye  yet  shall  win  ; 
And  all  the  bells  of  God  shall  ring 

The  good  ship  bravely  in  ! 


WHAT  THE  BIRDS  SAID. 

THE  birds  against  the  April  wind 

Flew  northward,  singing  as  they  flew ; 


31G 


NATIONAL   LYRICS. 


They  sang,  "  The  land  we  leave  behind 
Has  swords  for  corn-blades,  blood  for 
dew." 

"  0  wild -birds,  flying  from  the  South, 
What  saw  and  heard  ye,  gazing  down  ?" 

"  We  saw  the  mortar's  upturned  mouth, 
The  sickened  camp,  the  blazing  town  ! 

"  Beneath  the  bivouac's  starry  lamps, 
We    saw   your    march- worn    children 
die; 

In  shrouds  of  moss,  in  cypress  swamps, 
We  saw  your  dead  uncoffined  lie. 

"  We    heard    the     starving     prisoner's 

sighs, 
And  saw,  from  line  and  trench,  your 

sons 

Follow  our  flight  with  home-sick  eyes 
Beyond  the  battery's  smoking  guns." 

"  And  heard  and  saw  ye  only  wrong 
And  pain,"  I  cried,  "0  wing- worn 

flocks?" 
"We  heard,"   they   sang,    "the  freed- 

man's  song, 
The  crash  of  Slavery's  broken  locks ! 

"We  saw  from  new,  uprising  States 
The  treason-nursing  mischief  spurned, 

As,  crowding  Freedom's  ample  gates, 
The  long-estranged  and  lost  returned. 

"  O'er  dusky  faces,  seamed  and  old, 
And    hands   horn-hard   with    unpaid 
toil, 

With  hope  in  every  rustling  fold, 
We  saw  your  star-dropt  flag  uncoil. 

"  And    struggling   up   through    sounds 

accursed, 

A  grateful  murmur  elomb  the  air; 
A  whisper  scarcely  heard  at  first, 

It  filled  the   listening  heavens   with 
prayer. 

"  And  sweet  and  far,  as  from  a  star, 
Replied  a  voice  which  shall  not  cease, 

Till,  drowning  all  the  noise  of  war, 
It  sings  the  blessed  song  of  peace  !" 

So  to  me,  in  a  doubtful  day 

Of  chill  and  slowly  greening  spring, 
Low  stooping  from  the  cloudy  gray, 

The   wild -birds    sang    or    seemed    to 
sing. 


They  vanished  in  the  misty  air, 

The    song   went   with   them  in  their 
flight ; 

But  lo  !  they  left  the  sunset  fair, 
And  in  the  evening  there  was  light. 


LAUS   DEO! 

ON  HEARING  THE  BELLS  RING  ON  THE 
PASSAGE  OF  THE  CONSTITUTIONAL 
AMENDMENT  ABOLISHING  SLAVERY. 

IT  is  done ! 

Clang  of  bell  and  roar  of  gun 
Send  the  tidings  up  and  down. 

How  the  belfries  rock  and  reel  ! 

How  the  great  guns,  peal  on  peal, 
Fling  the  joy  from  town  to  town  ! 

Ring,  O  bells  ! 
Every  stroke  exulting  tells 

Of  the  burial  hour  of  crime. 

Loud  and  long,  that  all  may  hear, 
Ring  for  every  listening  ear 

Of  Eternity  and  Time  ! 

Let  us  kneel  : 
God's  own  voice  is  in  that  peal, 

And  this  spot  is  holy  ground. 

Lord,  forgive  us  !     What  are  we, 
That  our  eyes  this  glory  see, 

That  our  ears  have  heard  the  sound  ! 

For  the  Lord 

On  the  whirlwind  is  abroad  ; 
In  the  earthquake  he  has  spoken  ; 

He  has  smitten  with  his  thunder 

The  iron  walls  asunder, 
And  the  gates  of  brass  are  broken  ! 

Loud  and  long 
Lift  the  old  exulting  song  ; 

Sing  with  Miriam  by  the  sea 
He  has  cast  the  mighty  down  ; 
Horse  and  rider  sink  and  drown  ; 

"  He  hath  triumphed  gloriously  !  " 

Did  we  dare, 

In  our  agony  of  prayer, 
Ask  for  more  than  He  has  done  ? 

When  was  ever  his  right  hand 

Over  any  time  or  land 
Stretched  as  now  beneath  the  sun  T 

How  they  pale, 
Ancient  myth  and  son^  w»«l  tale, 


TO   THE  THIRTY-NINTH    CONGRESS. 


317 


In  this  wonder  of  our  days, 
When  the  cruel  rod  of  war 
Blossoms  white  with  righteous  law, 

And  the  wrath  of  man  is  praise  ! 

Blotted  out  ! 

All  within  and  all  about 
Shall  a  fresher  life  begin  ; 

Freer  breathe  the  universe 

As  it  rolls  its  heavy  curse 
On  the  dead  and  buried  sin  ! 

It  is  done  ! 
In  the  circuit  of  the  sun 

Shall  the  sound  thereof  go  forth. 
It  shall  bid  the  sad  rejoice, 
It  shall  give  the  dumb  a  voice, 

It  shall  belt  with  joy  the  earth  ! 

Ring  and  swing, 
Bells  of  joy  !     On  morning's  wing 

Send  the  song  of  praise  abroad  ! 
With  a  sound  of  broken  chains 
Tell  the  nations  that  He  reigns, 

Who  alone  is  Lord  and  God  ! 


THE   PEACE  AUTUMN. 

WRITTEN      FOR      THE       ESSEX      COUNTY 
AGRICULTURAL   FESTIVAL,    1865. 

THANK  God  for  rest,  where  none  molest, 
And  none  can  make  afraid,  — 

For  Peace  that  sits  as  Plenty's  guest 
Beneath  the  homestead  shade  ! 

Bring  pike  and  gun,    the  sword's  red 

scourge, 

The  negro's  broken  chains, 
And  beat    them    at    the    blacksmith's 

forge 
To  ploughshares  for  our  plains. 

Alike  henceforth  our  hills  of  snow, 
And  vales  where  cotton  flowers  ; 

All  streams  that   flow,  all  winds  that 

blow, 
Are  Freedom's  motive-powers. 

Henceforth  to  Labor's  chivalry 

Be  knightly  honors  paid  ; 
For  nobler  than  the  sword's  shall  be 

The  sickle's  accolade. 

Build  up  an  altar  to  the  Lord, 
0  grateful  hearts  of  ours  ! 


And  shape  it  of  the  greenest  sward 
That  ever  drank  the  showers. 

Lay  all  the  bloom  of  gardens  there, 
And  there  the  orchard  fruits  ; 

Bring  golden  grain  from  sun  and  air, 
From  earth  her  goodly  roots. 

There  let  our  banners  droop  and  flow, 

The  stars  uprise  and  fall  ; 
Our  roll  of  martyrs,  sad  and  slow, 

Let  sighing  breezes  call. 

Their  names  let  hands  of  horn  and  tau 
And  rough-shod  feet  applaud, 

Who  died  to  make  the  slave  a  man, 
And  link  with  toil  reward. 

There  let  the  common  heart  keep  time 

To  such  an  anthem  sung 
As  never  swelled  on  poet's  rhyme, 

Or  thrilled  on  singer's  tongue. 

Song  of  our  burden  and  relief, 

Of  peace  and  long  annoy  ; 
The  passion  of  our  mighty  grief 

And  our  exceeding  joy  ! 

A  song  of  praise  to  Him  who  filled 
The  harvests  sown  in  tears, 

And  gave  each  field  a  double  yield 
To  feed  our  battle-years  ! 

A  song  of  faith  that  trusts  the  end 

To  match  the  good  begun, 
Nor  doubts  the  power  of  Love  to  blend 

The  hearts  of  men  as  one  ! 


TO    THE    THIRTY-NINTH 
CONGRESS. 

0  PEOPLE-CHOSEN  !  are  ye  not 
Likewise  the  chosen  of  the  Lord, 
To  do  his  will  and  speak  his  word  ? 

From  the  loud  thunder-storm  of  war 
Not  man  alone  hath  called  ye  forth, 
But  he,  the  God  of  all  the  earth  ! 

The  torch  of  vengeance  in  your  hands 
He  quenches  ;  unto  Him  belongs 
The  solemn  recompense  of  wrongs. 

Enough  of  blood  the  land  has  seen, 
And  not  by  cell  or  gallows- stair 
Shall  ye  the  way  of  God  prepare. 


318 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


Say  to  the  pardon-seekers,  —  Keep 
Your   manhood,    bend   no   suppliant 

knees, 
Nor  palter  with  unworthy  pleas. 

Above  your  voices  sounds  the  wail 
Of  starving  men  ;  we  shut  in  vain 
Our  eyes  to  Pillow's  ghastly  stain. 

What   words    can    drown    that    bitter 

cry? 
What  tears   wash  out  that  stain   of 

death  ? 
What  oaths  confirm  your  broken  faith  ? 

From  you  alone  the  guaranty 

Of  union,  freedom,  peace,  we  claim  ; 
We    urge    no   conqueror's    terms    of 
shame. 

Alas  !  no  victor's  pride  is  ours  ; 
We  bend  above  our  triumphs  won 
Like  David  o'er  his  rebel  son. 

Be  men,  not  beggars.     Cancel  all 
By  one  brave,  generous  action  ;  trust 
Your  better  instincts,  and  be  just ! 


Make  all  men  peers  before  the  law, 
Take  hands  from  off  the  negro's  throat, 
Give  black  and  white  an  equal  vote. 

Keep  all  your  forfeit  lives  and  lands, 
But  give  the  common  law's  redress 
To  labor's  utter  nakedness. 

Revive  the  old  heroic  will ; 

Be  in  the  right  as  brave  and  strong 
As  ye  have  proved  yourselves  in  wTong 

Defeat  shall  then  be  victory, 

Your  loss  the  wealth  of  full  amends, 
And  hate  be  love,  and  foes  be  friends. 

Then  buried  be  the  dreadful  past, 

Its  common  slain  be  mourned,  and  let 
All  memories  soften  to  regret. 

Then  shall  the  Union's  mother-heart 
Her  lost  and  wandering  ones  recall, 
Forgiving  and  restoring  all,  — 

And  Freedom  break  her  marble  trance 
Above  the  Capitolian  dome, 
Stretch  hands,  and  bid  ye  welcome 
home  ! 


OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 


THE  ETERNAL  GOODNESS.    / 

0  FRIENDS  !  with  whom  my  feet  have 

trod 

The  quiet  aisles  of  prayer, 
Glad  witness  to  your  zeal  for  God 
And  love  of  man  I  bear. 

1  trace  your  lines  of  argument ; 
Your  logic  linked  and  strong 

I  weigh  as  one  who  dreads  dissent, 
And  fears  a  doubt  as  wrong. 

But  still  my  human  hands  are  weak 

To  hold  your  iron  creeds  : 
Against  the  words  ye  bid  me  speak 

My  heart  within  me  pleads. 

Who  fathoms  the  Eternal  Thought  ? 
Who  talks  of  scheme  and  plan  ? 


The  Lord  is  God  !     He  needeth  not 
The  poor  device  of  man. 

I  walk  with  bare,  hushed  feet  the  ground 
Ye  tread  with  boldness  shod  ; 

I  dare  not  fix  with  mete  and  bound 
The  love  and  power  of  God. 

Ye  praise  His  justice  ;  even  such 

His  pitying  love  I  deem  : 
Ye  seek  a  king  ;  I  fain  would  touch 

The  robe  that  hath  no  seam. 

Ye  see  the  curse  which  overbroods 

A  world  of  pain  and  loss  ; 
I  hear  our  Lord's  beatitudes 

And  prayer  upon  the  cross. 

More  than  your  schoolmen  teach,  within 
Myself,  alas  !  I  know  : 


OUR   MASTER. 


319 


Voo  dark  ye  cannot  paint  the  sin, 
Too  small  the  merit  show. 

I  bow  my  forehead  to  the  dust, 

I  veil  mine  eyes  for  shame, 
And  nrge,  in  trembling  self-  distrust, 

A  prayer  without  a  claim. 

T  see  the  wrong  that  round  me  lies, 

I  feel  the  guilt  within  ; 
I  hear,  with  groan  and  travail-cries, 

The  world  confess  its  sin. 

Yet,  in  the  maddening  maze  of  things, 

And  tossed  by  storm  and  flood, 
To  one  fixed  trust  my  spirit  clings  ; 
\  I  know  that  God  is  good  ! 

Not  mine  to  look  where  cherubim 

And  seraphs  may  not  see, 
But  nothing  can  be  good  in  Him 

Which  evil  is  in  me. 

The  wrong  that  pains  my  soul  below 

I  dare  not  throne  above  : 
I  know  not  of  His  hate,  —  I  know 

His  goodness  and  His  love. 

I  dimly  guess  from  blessings  known 

Of  greater  out  of  sight, 
And,  with  the  chastened  Psalmist,  own 

His  judgments  too  are  right.     ' 

I  long  for  household  voices  gone, 

For  vanished  smiles  I  long, 
But  God  hath  led  my  dear  ones  on, 

And  He  can  do  no  wrong. 

I  know  not  what  the  future  hatk 

Of  marvel  or  surprise, 
Assured  alone  that  life  and  death 

His  mercy  underlies. 

And  if  my  heart  and  flesh  are  weak 

To  bear  an  untried  pain, 
The  bruised  reed  He  will  not  break, 

But  strengthen  and  sustain. 

No  offering  of  my  own  I  have, 
Nor  works  my  faith  to  prove  ; 

I  can  but  give  the  gifts  He  gave, 
And  plead  His  love  for  love. 


so  beside  the  Silent  Sea 
I  wait  the  muffled  oar  ; 
'.No  harm  from  Him  can  come  to  me 
On  ocean  or  on  shore. 


I  know  not  where  His  islands  lift 
Their  fronded  palms  in  air  ; 

I  only  know  I  cannot  drift 
Beyond  His  love  and  care. 

0  brothers  !  if  my  faith  5s  vain, 
If  hopes  like  these  betray, 

Pray  for  me  that  my  feet  may  gain 
The  sure  and  safer  way. 

And  Thou,  0  Lord !  by  whom  are  s 
Thy  creatures  as  they  be, 

Forgive  me  if  too  close  I  lean 
My  human  heart  on  Thee  ! 


^    OUR  MASTER.     / 

IMMORTAL  Love,  forever  full, 

Forever  flowing  free, 
Forever  shared,  forever  whole, 

A  never-ebbing  sea  ! 

Our  outward  lips  confess  the  name 

All  other  names  above  ; 
Love  only  knoweth  whence  it  came, 

And  comprehendeth  love. 

Blow,  winds  of  God,  awake  and  blow 

The  rnists  of  earth  away  ! 
Shine  out,  0  Light  Divine,  and  show 

How  wide  and  far  we  stray  ! 

Hush  every  lip,  close  every  book, 
The  strife  of  tongues  forbear  ; 

Why  forward  reach,  or  backward  look, 
For  love  that  clasps  like  air  ? 

We  may  not  climb  the  heavenly  steeps 
To  bring  the  Lord  Christ  down  : 

In  vain  we  search  the  lowest  deeps, 
For  him  no  depths  can  drown. 

Nor  holy  bread,  nor  blood  of  grape, 

The  lineaments  restore 
Of  him  we  know  in  outward  shape 

And  in  the  flesh  no  more. 

He  cometh  not  a  king  to  reign  ; 

The  world's  long  hope  is  dim  ; 
The  weary  centuries  watch  in  vain 

The  clouds  of  heaven  for  him. 

Death  comes,  life  goes  ;  the  asking  eye 

And  ear  are  answerless  ; 
The  grave  is  dumb,  the  hollow  sky 

Is  sad  with  silentness. 


320 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


The  letter  fails,  and  systems  fall, 

And  every  symbol  wanes  ; 
The  Spirit  over-brooding  all 

Eternal  Love  remains. 

And  not  for  signs  in  heaven  above 

Or  earth  below  they  look, 
Who    know  with  John    his    smile    of 
love, 

With  Peter  his  rebuke. 

In  joy  of  inward  peace,  or  sense 

Of  sorrow  over  sin, 
He  is  his  own  best  evidence, 

His  witness  is  within. 

No  fable  old,  nor  mythic  lore, 
Nor  dream  of  bards  and  seers, 

No  dead  fact  stranded  on  the  shore 
Of  the  oblivious  years  ;  — 

But  warm,  sweet,  tender,  even  yet 

A  present  help  is  he  ; 
And  faith  has  still  its  Olivet, 

And  love  its  Galilee. 

The  healing  of  his  seamless  dress 

Is  by  our  beds  of  pain  ; 
We  touch   him    in    life's    throng    and 
press, 

And  we  are  whole  again. 

Through  him  the  first  fond  prayers  are 
said 

Our  lips  of  childhood  frame, 
The  last  low  whispers  of  our  dead 

Are  burdened  with  his  name. 

0  Lord  and  Master  of  us  all  ! 

Whate'er  our  name  or  sign, 
We  own  thy  sway,  we  hear  thy  call, 

We  test  our  lives  by  thine. 

Thou  judgest  us  ;  thy  purity 
Doth  all  our  lusts  condemn  ; 

The  love  that  draws  us  nearer  thee 
Is  hot  with  wrath  to  them. 

Our  thoughts  lie  open  to  thy  sight ; 

And,  naked  to  thy  glance, 
Our  secret  sins  are  in  the  light 

Of  thy  pure  countenance. 

Thy  healing  pains,  a  keen  distress 

Thy  tender  light  shines  in  ; 
Thy  sweetness  is  the  bitterness, 

Thy  grace  the  pang  of  sin. 


Yet,  weak  and  blinded  though  we  be, 

Thou  dost  our  service  own  ; 
We  bring  our  varying  gifts  to  thee, 

And  thou  rejectest  none. 

To  thee  our  full  humanity, 

Its  joys  and  pains,  belong  ; 
The  wrong  of  man  to  man  on  thee 

Inflicts  a  deeper  wrong. 

Who  hates,  hates  thee,  who  loves  be 
comes 

Therein  to  thee  allied  ; 
All  sweet  accords  of  hearts  and  homes 

In  thee  are  multiplied. 

Deep  strike  thy  roots,  0  heavenly  Vine, 

Within  our  earthly  sod, 
Most  human  and  yet  most  divine, 

The  flower  of  man  and  God  ! 

0    Love  !     0    Life  !      Our    faith     and 

sight 

Thy  presence  maketh  one  : 
As     through     transfigured    clouds     of 

white 
We  trace  the  noon-day  sun. 

So,  to  our  mortal  eyes  subdued, 
Flesh- veiled,  but  not  concealed, 

We  know  in  thee  the  fatherhood 
And  heart  of  God  revealed. 

We  faintly  hear,  we  dimly  see, 
In  differing  phrase  we  pray  ; 

But,  dim  or  clear,  we  own  in  thee 
The  Light,  the  Truth,  the  Way  ! 

The  homage  that  we  render  thee 

Is  still  our  Father's  own  ; 
Nor  jealous  claim  or  rivalry 

Divides  the  Cross  and  Throne. 

To  do  thy  will  is  more  than  praise, 
As  words  are  less  than  deeds, 

And  simple  trust  can  find  thy  ways 
We  miss  with  chart  of  creeds. 

No  pride  of  self  thy  service  hath, 

No  place  for  me  and  mine ; 
Our  human  strength  is  weakness,  death 

Our  life,  apart  from  thine. 

Apart  from  thee  all  gain  is  loss, 

All  labor  vainly  done  ; 
The  solemn  shadow  of  thy  Cross 

Is  better  than  the  sun. 


REVISITED. 


Alone,  0  Love  ineffable ! 

Thy  saving  name  is  given ; 
To  turn  aside  from  tliee  is  hell, 

To  walk  with  thee  is  heaven  \ 

How  vain,  secure  in  all  thou  art, 
Our  noisy  championship  !  — 

The  sighing  of  the  contrite  heart 
Is  more  than  nattering  lip. 

Not  thine  the  bigot's  partial  plea, 

Nor  thine  the  zealot's  ban  ; 
Thou  well  canst  spare  a  love  of  thee 

Which  ends  in  hate  of  man. 

Our  Friend,  our  Brother,  and  our  Lord, 
What  may  thy  service  be  ?  — 

Nor  name,  nor  form,  nor  ritual  word, 
But  simply  following  thee. 

We  bring  no  ghastly  holocaust, 

We  pile  no  graven  stone ; 
He  serves  thee  best  who  loveth  most 

His  brothers  and  thy  own. 

Thy  litanies,  sweet  offices 

Of  love  and  gratitude  ; 
Thy  sacramental  liturgies, 

The  joy  of  doing  good. 

In  vain  shall  waves  of  incense  drift 

The  vaulted  nave  around, 
In  vain  the  minster  turret  lift 

Its  brazen  weights  of  sound. 

The  heart    must    ring    thy   Christmas 
bells, 

Thy  inward  altars  raise  ; 
Its  faith  and  hope  thy  canticles, 

And  its  obedience  praise  ! 


THE  VANISHERS. 

SWEETEST  of  all  childlike  dreams 
In  the  simple  Indian  lore 

Still  to  me  the  legend  seems 
Of  the  shapes  who  flit  before. 

Flitting,  passing,  seen  and  gone, 
Never  reached  nor  found  at  rest, 

Baffling  search,  but  beckoning  on 
To  the  Sunset  of  the  Blest. 

From  the  clefts  of  mountain  rocks, 
Through  the  dark  of  lowland  firs, 

Flash  the  eyes  and  flow  the  locks 
Of  the  mystic  Vanishers  ! 
21 


And  the  fisher  in  his  skiff, 
And  the  hunter  on  the  moss, 

Hear  their  call  from  cape  and  cliff, 
See  their  hands  the  birch-leaves  tosa. 

Wistful,  longing,  through  the  green 
Twilight  of  the  clustered  pines, 

In  their  faces  rarely  seen 

Beauty  more  than  mortal  shines. 

Fringed  with  gold  their  mantles  flow 
On  the  slopes  of  westering  knolls  ; 

In  the  wind  they  whisper  low 
Of  the  Sunset  Land  of  Souls. 

Doubt  who  may,  0  friend  of  min®  ! 

Thou  and  I  have  seen  them  too ; 
On  before  with  beck  and  sign 

Still  they  glide,  and  we  pursue. 

More  than  clouds  of  purple  trail 
In  the  gold  of  setting  day  ; 

More  than  gleams  of  wing  or  sail 
Beckon  from  the  sea-mist  gray. 

Glimpses  of  immortal  youth, 

Gleams  and  glories  seen  and  flown, 

Far-heard  voices  sweet  with  truth, 
Airs  from  viewless  Eden  blown,  — 

Beauty  that  eludes  our  grasp, 

Sweetness  that  transcends  our  taste, 

Loving  hands  we  may  not  clasp, 

Shining  feet  that  mock  our  haste,  — • 

Gentle  eyes  we  closed  below, 
Tender  voices  heard  once  more, 

Smile  and  call  us,  as  they  go 
On  and  onward,  still  before. 

Guided  thus,  0  friend  of  mine  ! 

Let  us  walk  our  little  way, 
Knowing  by  each  beckoning  sign 

That  we  are  not  quite  astray. 

Chase  we  still,  with  baffled  feet, 
Smiling  eye  and  waving  hand, 

Sought  and  seeker  soon  shall  meet, 
Lost  and  found,  in  Sunset  Land  ! 


EEVISITED. 

READ  AT  THE   "LAURELS,"  ON  THB 
MERRIMACK,  6TH  MONTH,  1865. 

THE  roll  of  drums  and  the  bugie  s  waii. 

IBg 

Vex  the  air  of  our  vales  no  more ; 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 


The  spear  is  beaten  to  hooks  of  prun 
ing, 
The   share   is   the   sword  the  soldier 


Sing  soft,  sinji  low,  our  lowland  river, 
Under  thy  banks  of  laurel  bloom  ; 

Softly  and  sweet,  as  the  hour  be.M  emeth, 
Sing  us  the  songs  of  peace  and  home. 

Let  all  the  tenderer  voices  of  nature 
Temper    the    triumph     arid     chasten 

mirth, 
Full  of  the  infinite  love  and  pity 

For    fallen     martyr     and     darkened 
hearth. 

But   to  Him  who  gives  us  beauty  for 

ashes, 

And  the  oil  of  joy  for  mourning  long, 
Let  thy  hills  give   thanks,  and  all  thy 

waters 
Break  into  jubilant  waves  of  song ! 

Bring  us  the  airs  of  hills  and  forests, 
The  sweet  aroma  of  birch  and  pine, 

Give  us  a  waft  of  the  north-wind  laden 
With  sweetbrier  odors  and  breath  of 
kine ! 

Bring  us  the  purple  of  mountain  sunsets, 
Shadows  of  clouds  that  rake  the  hills, 

The    green    repose    of    thy    Plymouth 

meadows, 
The  gleam  and  ripple  of  Campton  rills. 

Lead  us  away  in  shadow  and  sunshine, 
Slaves  of  fancy,  through  all  thy  miles, 

The  winding  ways  of  Pemigewasset, 
And  Winnipesaukee's  hundred  isles. 

Shatter  in  sunshine  over  thy  ledges, 
Laugh  in  thy   plunges  from    fall   to 
fall; 

Play  with  th\r  fringes  of  elms,  and  darken 
Under  the  shade  of  the  mountain  wall 

The  cradle-song  of  thy  hillside  fountains 
Here  in  thy  glory  and  strength  repeat 

Give  us  a  taste  of  thy  upland  music, 
Show  us  the  dance  of  thy  silver  feet. 

Into  thy  dutiful  life  of  uses 

Pour  the  music  and  weave  the  flowers^ 
With   the  song  of  birds  and  bloom  oi 

meadows 

Lighten  and  gladden   thy  heart  anc 
ours. 


Sing  on  !  bring  down,  O  lowland  river, 
The  joy   of  the  hills  to  the  waiting 

sea  ; 
The   wealth  of  the  vales,  the  pomp  of 

mountains, 

The    breath  of  the   woodlands,    beai 
with  thee. 

Here,  in  the  calm  of  thy  seaward  val 
ley, 

Mirth  and  labor  shall  hold  their  truce  ; 
Danee  of  water  and  mill  of  grinding, 

Both  are  beauty  and  both  are  use. 

Type  of  the  Northland's   strength  and 

glory, 
Pride   and    hope   of    our    home   anc? 

race,  — 

Freedom  lending  to  rugged  labor 
Tints  of  beauty  and  lines  of  grace. 

Once  again,  0  beautiful  river, 

Hear    our    greetings    and    take    oui 

thanks  ; 
Hither  we  come,  as  Eastern  pilgrims 

Throng  to  the  Jordan's  sacred  banks. 

For  though   by   the   Master's   feet  un, 

trodden, 
Though   never   his   word   has   stilled 

thy  waves, 

"Well  for  us  may  thy  shores  be  holy, 
With    Christian    altars     and  saintly 
graves. 

And    well  may   we   own   thy  hint  and 

token 
Of    fairer  valleys   and   streams   than 

these, 

Where  the  rivers  of  God  are  full  of  water, 
And  full  of  sap  are  his  healing  trees  ! 


THE  COMMON  QUESTION. 

BEHIND  us  at  our  evening  meal 

The  gray  bird  ate  his  fill, 
Swung  downward  by  a  single  claw, 

And  wiped  his  hooked  bill. 

He  shook  his  wings  and  crimson  tail, 

And  set  his  head  aslant, 
And,  in  his  sharp,  impatient  way, 

Asked,  "  What  does  Charlie  want  1 " 

"Fie,  silly  bird  !  "  I  answered,  "  tuck 
Your  head  beneath  your  wing, 


HYMN. 


323 


And  go  to  sleep  "  ;  —  but  o'er  and  o'er 
He  asked  the  self-same  thing. 

Then,  smiling,  to  myself  I  said  :  — 
How  like  are  men  and  birds  ! 

We  all  are  saying  what  he  says, 
In  action  or  in  words. 

The  boy  with  whip  and  top  and  drum, 

The  girl  with  hoop  and  doll, 
And  men  with  lands  and  houses,  ask 

The  question  of  Poor  Poll. 

However  full,  with  something  more 
We  fain  the  bag  would  cram  ; 

We  sigh  above  our  crowded  nets 
For  fish  that  never  swam. 

No  bounty  of  indulgent  Heaven 

The  vague  desire  can  stay ; 
Self-love  is  still  a  Tartar  mill 

For  grinding  prayers  alway. 

The  dear  God  hears  and  pities  all ; 

He  knoweth  all  our  wants  ; 
And  what  we  blindly  ask  of  him 

His  love  withholds  or  grants. 

And  so  I  sometimes  think  our  prayers 
Might  well  be  merged  in  one  ; 

And  nest    and   perch   and  hearth   and 

church 
Kepeat,  "Thy  will  be  done." 


BRYANT  ON  HIS  BIRTHDAY. 

WE  praise  not  now  the  poet's  art, 
The  rounded  beauty  of  his  song  ; 

Who  weighs  him  from  his  life  apart 
Must  do  his  nobler  nature  wrong. 

Not  for  the  eye,  familiar  grown 

With  charms  to  common  sight  de 
nied,  — 

The  marvellous  gift  he  shares  alone 
With  him  who  walked  on  Rydal-side  ; 

Not  for  rapt  hymn  nor  woodland  lay, 
Too   grave   for  smiles,    too  sweet  for 
tears  ; 

We  speak  his  praise  who  wears  to-day 
The  glory  of  his  seventy  years. 

When   Peace    brings    Freedom   in   her 

train, 
Let  happy  lips  his  songs  rehearse  ; 


His  life  is  now  his  noblest  strain, 
His  manhood  better  than  his  verse  ! 

Thank   God !    his    hand    on     Nature's 

keys 
Its    cunning    keeps     at     life's     full 

span  ; 
But,  dimmed  and  dwarfed,  in  times  like 

these, 
The  poet  seems  beside  the  man  ! 

So  be  it  !  let  the  garlands  die, 

The    singer's    wreath,    the    painter's 

meed, 
Let  our  names  perish,  if  thereby 

Our  country  may  be  saved  and  freed  ! 


HYMN 

FOR  THE  OPENING  OF  THOMAS  STARR 
KING'S  HOUSE  OF  WORSHIP,  1864. 

AMIDST  these  glorious  works  of  thine, 
The  solemn  minarets  of  the  pine, 
And  awful  Shasta's  icy  shrine,  — 

Where  swell  thyjrymns  from  wave  and 

gale, 

And  organ-thunders  never  fail, 
Behind  the  cataract's  silver  veil,  — 

Our  puny  walls  to  Thee  we  raise, 

Our  poor  reed-music  sounds  thy  praise  : 

Forgive,  0  Lord,  our  childish  ways  ! 

For,  kneeling  on  these  altar-stairs, 
We  urge  Thee  not  with  selfish  prayers, 
Nor  murmur  at  our  daily  cares. 

Before  Thee,  in  an  evil  day, 

Our  country's  bleeding  heart  we  lay, 

And  dare  not  ask  thy  hand  to  stay  ; 

But,    through   the   war-cloud,   pray  to 

thee 

For  union,  but  a  union  free, 
With  peace  that  comes  of  purity  ! 

That    Thou    wilt    bare     thy    arm     to 

save 
And,    smiting    through    this    Red  Sea 

wave, 
Make  broad  a  pathway  for  the  slave  ! 


324 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 


For  us,  confessing  all  our  need, 

We  trust  nor  rite  nor  word  nor  deed, 

Nor  yet  the  broken  staff  of  creed. 

Assured  alone  that  Thou  art  good 
!To  each,  as  to  the  multitude, 
Eternal  Love  and  Fatherhood,  — 

Weak,  sinful,  blind,  to  Thee  we  kneel, 
Stretch  dumbly  forth  our  hands,  and  feel 
Our  weakness  is  our  strong  appeal. 

So,  by  these  Western  gates  of  Even 
We  wait  to  see  with  thy  forgiven 
The  opening  Golden  Gate  of  Heaven  ! 

Suffice  it  now.     In  time  to  be 
Shall  holier  altars  rise  to  thee,  — 
Thy  Church  our  broad  humanity  ! 

White  flowers  of  love   its  walls  shall 

climb, 

Soft  bells  of  peace  shall  ring  its  chime, 
Its  days  shall  all  be  holy  time. 

A  sweeter  song  shall  then  be  heard,  — 
The  music  of  the  world's  accord 
Confessing  Christ,  the  Inward  Word  ! 

That  song  shall   swell  from    shore   to 

shore, 

One  hope,  one  faith,  one  love,  restore 
Th«  seamless  robe  that  Jesus  wore. 


THOMAS  STARR  KING. 

TUB  great  work  laid  upon  his  twoscore 

years 
Is  done,  and  well  done.     If  we  drop  our 

tears, 
Who  loved  him  as  few  men  were  ever 

loved, 

We  mourn  no  blighted  hope   nor   bro 
ken  plan 
With   him   whose   life   stands   rounded 

and  approved 

In  the  full  growth  and  stature  of  a  man. 
Mingle,    0    bells,    along    the    Western 

slope, 
With  your  deep  toll  a  sound  of  faith  and 

hope  ! 
Wave  cheerily  still,  O  banner,  half-way 

down, 
From    thousand-masted   bay   and   stee- 

pled  town  ! 
Let  the  strong  organ   with   its   loftiest 

swell 
Lift  the  proud  sorrow  of  the  land,  and 

tell 
That  the  brave  sower   saw  his    ripened 

grain. 
0  East  and  West !  0  morn  and  sunset 

twain 
No    more  forever!  —  has  he    lived    in 

vain 
Who,  priest  of  Freedom,  made  ye  one, 

and  told 
Your  bridal  service  from  his  lips  of 

gold? 


AMONG   THE   HILLS. 


AMONG    THE    HILLS, 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


TO    ANNIE    FIELDS 

THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME, 

DESCRIPTIVE    OF    SCENES    WITH    WHICH    SHE    IS    FAMILIAR, 
IS    GRATEFULLY    OFFERED. 


PRELUDE. 

ALONG  the  roadside,  like  the  flowers  of 
gold 

That  tawny  Incas  for  their  gardens 
wrought, 

Heavy  with  sunshine  droops  the  golden- 
rod, 

And  the  red  pennons  of  the  cardinal- 
flowers 

Hang  motionless  upon  their  upright 
staves. 

The  sky  is  hot  and  hazy,  and  the  wind, 

Wing-weary  with  its  long  flight  from 
the  south, 

Unfelt  ;  yet,  closely  scanned,  yon  maple 
leaf 

With  faintest  motion,  as  one  stirs  in 
dreams, 

Confesses  it.     The  locust  by  the  wall 

Stabs  the  noon-silence  with  his  sharp 
alarm. 

A  single  hay-cart  down  the  dusty  road 

Creaks  slowly,  with  its  driver  fast  asleep 

On  the  load's  top.  Against  the  neigh 
boring  hill, 

Huddled  along  the  stone  wall's  shady 
side, 

The  sheep  show  white,  as  if  a  snowdrift 
still 

Defied  the  dog-star.  Through  the  open 
door 

A  drowsy  smell  of  flowers  —  gray  helio 
trope, 

And  white  sweet  clover,  and  shy  migno 
nette  — 


Comes  faintly  in,  and  silent  chorus  lend* 
To  the  pervading  symphony  of  peace. 

No  time  is  this  for  hands  long  over 
worn 
To  task  their  strength  :   and  (unto  Him 

be  praise 
Who  giveth  quietness !)  the  stress  and 

strain 

Of  years  that  did  the  work  of  centuries 
Have   ceased,    and    we    can    draw  our 

breath  once  more 

Freely  and  full.     So,  as  yon  harvesters 
Make  glad  their  nooning  underneath  the 

elms 
With  tale  and  riddle  and  old  snatch  of 

song, 

I  lay  aside  grave  themes,  and  idly  turn 
The  leaves    of   memory's    sketch-book, 

dreaming  o'er 

Old  summer  pictures  of  the  quiet  hills, 
And  human  life,  as  quiet,  at  their  feet. 

And  yet  not  idly  all.     A  farmer's  son, 
Proud  of  field-lore  and  harvest  craft,  and 

feeling 

All  their  fine  possibilities,  how  rich 
And  restful  even  poverty  and  toil 
Become  when  beauty,  harmony,  and  love 
Sit  at  their  humble  hearth  as  angels  sat 
At  evening  in  the  patriarch's  tent,  when 

man 
Makes  labor  noble,    and    his    farmer's 

frock 

The  symbol  of  a  Christian  chivalry 
Tender  and  just  and  generous  to  her 


326 


AMONG   THE   HILLS. 


¥ 


Who  clothes  with  grace  all  duty  ;  still, 

I  know 

Too  well  the  picture  has  another  side,  — 
How  wearily  the  grind  of  toil  goes  on 
Where  love  is  wanting,  how  the  eye  and 

ear 

And  heart  are  starved  amidst  the  plen 
itude 

Of  nature,  and  how  hard  and  colorless 
Is  life  without  an  atmosphere.     1  look 
Across  the  lapse  of  half  a  century, 
And  call  to  mind  old  homesteads,  where 

no  flower 
Told  that  the  spring  had  come,  but  evil 

weeds, 
Nightshade   and   rough-leaved  burdock 

in  the  place 
Of  the  sweet  doorway  greeting  of   the 

rose 
And     honeysuckle,    where     the    house 

walls  seemed 

Blistering  in  sun,  without  a  tree  or  vine 
To   cast   the   tremulous  shadow   of  its 

leaves 
Across   the   curtainless    windows    from 

whose  panes 

Fluttered  the  signal  rags  of  shiftlessness  ; 
Within,  the  cluttered  kitchen-floor,  un 
washed 
(Broom-clean   I  think   they  called  it) ; 

the  best  room 
Stifling  with  cellar  damp,  shut  from  the 

air 

In  hot  midsummer,  bookless,  pictureless 
Save  the  inevitable  sampler  hung 
Over  the  fireplace,  or  a  mourning  piece, 
A  green-haired  woman,  peony-cheeked, 

beneath 
Impossible  willows  ;    the  wide-throated 

hearth 
Bristling  with  faded   pine-boughs    half 

concealing 
The  piled-up  rubbish  at  the  chimney's 

back  ; 
And,  in   sad  keeping    with   all   things 

about  them, 
Shrill,  querulous  women,  sour  and  sullen 

men, 

Untidy,  loveless,  old  before  their  time, 
With  scarce  a  human  interest  save  their 

own 

Monotonous  round  of  small  economies, 
Or  the  poor  scandal  of  the  neighborhood ; 
Blind   to   the    beauty    everywhere    re- 

yealed, 

Treading  the  May-flowers  with  regard 
less  feet ; 


For    them  the    song-sparrow    and   the 

bobolink 
Sang  not,  nor  winds  made  music  in  the 

leaves  ; 

For  them  in  vain  October's  holocaust 
Burned,  gold  and  crimson,  over  all  the 

hills, 

The  sacramental  mystery  of  the  woods. 
Church-goers,     fearful    of    the    unseen 

Powers, 

But  grumbling  over  pulpit-tax  and  pew- 
rent, 

Saving,  as  shrewd  economists,  their  souls 
And  winter  pork  with  the  least  possible 

outlay 

Of  salt  and  sanctity ;  in  daily  life 
Showing  as  little  actual  comprehension 
Of  Christian  charity  and  love  and  duty, 
As  if  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  had  been 
Outdated  like  a  last  year's  almanac  : 
Rich  in  broad  woodlands  and  in  half- 
tilled  fields, 

And  yet  so  pinched  and  bare  and  com 
fortless, 
The    veriest   straggler    limping  on  his 

rounds, 

The  sun  and  air  his  sole  inheritance, 
Laughed  at  a  poverty  that  paid  its  taxes, 
And   hugged  his   rags    in    self-coinpla- 
cency  ! 

Not  such  should  be  the  homesteads  of 

a  land 
Where  whoso  wisely  wills  and  acts  may 

dwell 
As  king  and  lawgiver,   in    broad-acred 

state, 
With  beauty,  art,   taste,  culture,  books, 

to  make 

His  hour  of  leisure  richer  than  a  life 
Of  fourscore  to  the  barons  of  old  time, 
Our  yeoman  should  be  equal  to  his  home 
Set  in   the  fair,    green   valleys,    purple 

walled, 
A  man  to  match  his  mountains,  not  to 

creep 
Dwarfed   and    abased   below    them.     I 

would  fain 
In  this  light  way  (of  which  I  needs  must 

own 

With  the  knife-grinder  of  whom  Can 
ning  sings, 
' '  Story,  God  bless  you  !  I  have  none  to 

tell  you ! ") 

Invite  the  eye  to  see  and  heart  to  feel 
The  beauty  and  the  joy   within   their 

reach,  — 


AMONG   THE   HILLS. 


327 


Home,  and  home  loves,  and  the  beati 
tudes 

Of  nature  free  to  all  Haply  in  years 
That  wait  to  take  the  places  of  our 

own, 
Heard  where  some  breezy  balcony  looks 

down 
On  happy  homes,   or  where  the  lake  111 

the  moon 

Sleeps  dreaming  of  the  mountains,  fail- 
as  Kuth, 

In  the  old  Hebrew  pastoral,  at  the  feet 
Of  Boaz,  even  this  simple  lay  of  mine 
May  seem  the  burden  of  a  prophecy, 
Finding  its  late  fulfilment  in  a  change 
Slow  as  the  oak's  growth,   lifting  man 
hood  up 
Through  broader  culture,  liner  manners, 

love, 
And  reverence,  to  the  level  of  the  hills. 

0   Golden   Age,  whose  light   is   of  the 

dawn, 

And  not  of  sunset,  forward,  not  behind, 
Flood  the  new  heavens  and  earth,  and 

with  thee  bring 

All  the  old  virtues,  whatsoever  things 
Are  piire  and  honest  and  of  good  repute, 
But  add  thereto  whatever  bard  has  sung 
Or  seer  has  told  of  when  in   trance  and 

dream 

They  saw  the  Happy  Isles  of  prophecy ! 
Let  \Tustice  hold   her  scale,   and  Truth 

divide 
Between  the  right  and  wrong ;  but  give 

the  heart 

The  freedom  of  its  fair  inheritance ; 
Let   the    poor  prisoner,     cramped    and 

starved  so  long, 

At  Nature's  table  feast  his  ear  and  eye 
"With  joy  and  wonder  ;  let  all  harmonics 
Of  sound,    form,    color,    motion,    wait 

upon 

The  princely  guest,  whether  in  soft  attire 
Of  leisure  clad,   or  the  coarse  frock  of 

toil, 
And,  lending  life  to  the  dead    form  of 

faith, 
Give   human  nature  reverence  for  the 

sake 

Of  One  who  bore  it,  making  it  divine 
With  the  ineffable  tenderness  of  God  ; 
Let  common  need,  the  brotherhood  of 

prayer, 

The  heirship  of  an  unknown  destiny, 
The  unsolved  mystery  round  about  us, 

make 


A  man  more  precious  than  the  gold  of 

Ophir. 

Sacred,  inviolate,  unto  whom  all  things 
Should  minister,  as  outward  types  and 

signs 

Of  the  eternal  beauty  which  fulfils 
The  one  great  purpose  of  creation,  /Love, 
The  sole  necessity  of  Earth  and  Heaven  !  j 

AMONG  THE  HILLS. 

FOR  weeks   the  clouds  had   raked   the 
hills 

And  vexed  the  vales  with  raining, 
And  all  the  woods  were  sad  with  mist, 

And  all  the  brooks  complaining. 

At  last,  a  sudden  night-storm  tor 

The  mountain  veils  asunder, 
And  swept  the  valleys  clean  before 

The  besom  of  the  thunder. 

Through  Sandwich  notct  the  west-wind 
sang 

Good  morrow  to  thb  cotter; 
And  once  again  Ch^corua's  horn 

Of  shadow  pierced  the  water. 

Above  his  broad  lake  Ossipee, 
Once  more  the  sunshine  wearing, 

Stooped,  tracing  on  that  silver  shield 
His  grim  armorial  bearing. 

Clear  drawn  against  the  hard  blue  sky 
The  peaks  had  winter's  keenness  ; 

And,  close  on  autumn's  frost,  the  vales 
Had   more   than  June's  fresh  green- 
ness. 

Again  the  sodden  forest  floors 

With  golden  lights  were  checkered, 

Once  more  rejoicing  leaves  in  wind 
And  sunshine  danced  and  flickered. 

It  was  as  if  the  summer's  late 

Atoning  for  its  sadness 
Had  borrowed  every  season's  charm 

To  end  its  days  in  gladness. 

I  call  to  mind  those  banded  vales 

Of  shadow  and  of  shining, 
Through  which,  my  hostess  at  my  side, 

I  drove  in  day's  declining. 

We  held  our  sideling  way  above 
The  river's  whitening  shallows, 


328 


AMONG   THE   HILLS. 


By    homesteads    old,     with    wide-flung 

barns 

Swept  through  and  through  by  swal 
lows,  — 

By  inaple  orchards,  belts  of  pine 
And  larches  climbing  darkly 

The  mountain  slopes,  and,  over  all, 
The  great  peaks  rising  starkly. 

You  should  have  seen   that   long  hill- 
range 

"With  gaps  of  brightness  riven,  — 
How   through    each    pass    u::d  hollow 

streamed 
The  purpling  lights  of  lieav:  n,  — 

Elvers  of  gold-mist  flowing  down 
From  far  celestial  fountains,  — 

The    great    sun    flaming    through    the 

rifts 
Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains  ! 

"We  paused  at  last   where   home-bound 
cows 

Brought  down  the  pasture's  treasure, 
And  in  the  barn  the  rhythmic  flails 

Beat  out  a  harvest  measure. 

We    heard     the     night-hawk's     sullen 

plunge. 

The  crow  his  tree-mates  calling  : 
The    shadows    lengthening     down    the 

slopes 
About  our  feet  were  falling. 

And  through  them  smote  the  level  sun 

In  broken  lines  of  splendor, 
Touched  the  gray  rocks   and  made  the 
green 

Of  the  shorn  grass  more  tender. 

The  maples  bending  o'er  the  gate, 
Their  arch  of  leaves  just  tinted 

With  yellow'  warmth,  the  golden  glow 
Of  coming  autumn  hinted. 

Keen    white    between    the    farm-house 
showed, 

And  smiled  on  porch  and  trellis, 
The  fair  democracy  of  flowers 

That  equals  cot  and  palace. 

And  weaving  garlands  for  her  dog, 
'Twixt  chidings  and  caresses, 

A  human  flower  of  childhood  shook 
The  sunshine  from  her  tresses. 


On  either  hand  we  sa-w  the  signs 

Of  fancy  and  of  shrewflness, 
Where  taste  had  wound  its  arms  of  vino* 

Hound  thrift's  uncomely  rudeness. 

The  sun -brown  farmer  in  his  frock 
Shook  hands,  and  called  to  Mary : 

Bare-armed,  as  Juno  might,  she  came. 
White-aproned  from  her  dairy. 

Her  air,  her  smile,  her  motions,  told 

Of  womanly  completeness  ; 
V  music  as  of  household  songs 

Was  in  her  voice  of  sweetness. 

Xot  fair  alone  in  curve  and  line, 
But  something  more  and  better, 

The  secret  charm  eluding  art, 
Its  spirit,  not  its  letter ;  — 

An  inborn  grace  that  nothing  lacked 

Of  culture  or  appliance,  — 
The  warmth  of  genial  courtesy, 

The  calm  of  self-reliance. 

Before  her  queenly  womanhood 
How  dared  our  hostess  utter 

The  paltry  errand  of  her  need 
To  buy  her  fresh-churned  butter  ? 

She  led  the  way  with  housewife  pride, 

Her  goodly  store  disclosing, 
Full  tenderly  the  golden  balls 

With  practised  hands  disposing. 

Then,  while  along  the  western  hills 
We  watched  the  changeful  glory 

Of  sunset,  on  our  homeward  way, 
I  heard  her  simple  story. 

The  early  crickets  sang  ;  the  stream 
Plashed    through  my  friend's   narra- 
tion  : 

Her  rustic  patois  of  the  hills 
Lost  in  my  free  translation. 

"More   wise,"  she   said,    "than   those 
who  swarm 

Our  hills  in  middle  summer, 
She  came,  when  June's  first  roses  blow, 

To  greet  the  early  comer. 

"From   school  and  ball  and  rout  she 
came, 

The  city's  fair,  pale  daughter,  ^ 
To  drink  the  wine  of  mountain  air 

Beside  the  Bearcamp  Water. 


AMONG   THE   HILLS. 


320 


*  Her  step  grew  firmer  on  the  hills 
That  watch  our  homesteads  over  ; 
On  cheek  and  lip,  from  summer  fields, 
She  caught  the  bloom  of  clover. 

'•'  For  health   comes   sparkling   in   the 
streams 

From  cool  Chocorua  stealing  : 
There  's  iron  in  our  Northern  winds  ; 

Our  pines  are  trees  of  healing. 

11  She    sat    beneath    the   broad -armed 

elms 

That  skirt  the  mowing-meadow, 
And    watched    the     gentle     west-wind 

weave 
The  grass  with  shine  and  shadow. 

' '  Beside  her,  from  the  summer  heat 
To  share  her  grateful  screening, 

With  forehead  bared,  the  farmer  stood, 
Upon  his  pitchfork  leaning. 

"Framed  in  its  damp,  dark  locks,  his 
face 

Had  nothing  mean  or  common,  — 
•Strong,  manly,  true,  the  tenderness 

And  pride  beloved  of  woman. 

"  She    looked    up,    glowing    with    the 

health 

The  country  air  had  brought  her, 
And,    laughing,    said :     '  You    lack    a 

wife, 
Your  mother  lacks  a  daughter. 

'"To  mend  your  frock  and  bake  your 
bread 

You  do  not  need  a  lady  : 
Be  sure  among  these  brown  old  homes 

Is  some  one  waiting  ready,  — 

" '  Some   fair,  sweet   girl  with    skilful 
hand 

And  cheerful  heart  for  treasure, 
Who  never  played  with  ivory  keys, 

Or  danced  the  polka's  measure.' 

"  He  bent  his  black  brows  to  a  frown, 
He  set  his  white  teeth  tightly. 

'  'T  is  well,'  he  said,  '  for  one  like  you 
To  choose  for  me  so  lightly. 

"  'You  think,  because  my  life  is  rude 
I  take  no  note  of  sweetness  : 

I  tell  you  love  has  naught  to  do 
With  meetness  or  unmeetness. 


"  '  Itself  its  best  excuse,  it  asks 

No  leave  of  pride  or  fashion 
When  silken  zone  or  homespun  frock 

It  stirs  with  throbs  of  passion. 

"  'You  think  me  deaf  and  blind  :  you 
bring 

Your  winning  graces  hither 
As  free  as  if  from  cradle-time 

We  two  had  played  together. 

"  'You  tempt  me   with   your  laughing 
eyes, 

Your  cheek  of  sundown's  blushes, 
A  motion  as  of  waving  grain, 

A  music  as  of  thrushes. 

"  '  The  plaything  of  your  summer  sport, 
The  spells  you  weave  around  me 

You  cannot  at  your  will  undo, 
Nor  leave  me  as  you  found  me. 

"  'You  go  as  lightly  as  you  came, 
Your  life  is  well  without  me  ; 

What  care  you  that  these  hills  will  close 
Like  prison-walls  about  me  ? 

'"No  mood  is  mine  to  seek  a  wife, 
Or  daughter  for  my  mother  : 

Who  loves  you  loses  in  that  love 
All  power  to  love  another  ! 

"  '  I  dare  your  pity  or  your  scorn, 
With  pride  your  own  exceeding  ; 

I  fling  my  heart  into  your  lap 
Without  a  word  of  pleading.' 

"  She  looked  up  in  his  face  of  pain 

So  archly,  yet  so  tender  : 
'  And  if  I  lend  you  mine,'  she  said, 

'  Will  you  forgive  the  lender  ? 

"'Nor  frock  nor   tan    can    hide    the 
man  ; 

And  see  you  not,  my  fanner, 
How  weak  and  fond  a  woman  waits 

Behind  this  silken  armor  ? 

"  '  I  love  you  :  on  that  love  alone, 
And  not  my  worth,  presuming, 

Will  you  not  trust  for  summer  fruit 
The  tree  in  May-day  blooming  ? ' 

' '  Alone  the  hangbird  overhead, 
His  hair-swung  cradle  straining, 

Looked  down  to  see  love's  miracle,  — 
The  giving  that  is  gaining. 


330 


AMONG  THE  HILLS. 


"And  so  the  farmer  found  a  Avife, 
His  mother  found  a  daughter  : 

There  looks  no  happier  home  than  hers 
On  pleasant  Bearcamp  AVater. 

"  Flowers  spring  to  blossom  where  she 
walks 

The  careful  ways  of  duty  ; 
Our  hard,  stiff  lines  of  life  with  her 

Are  flowing  curves  of  beauty. 

"  Om-  homes  are  cheerier  for  her  sake, 
Our  door-yards  brighter  blooming, 

And  all  about  the  social  air 
Is  sweeter  for  her  coming. 

"  Unspoken  homilies  of  peace 

Her  daily  life  is  preaching  ; 
The  still  refreshment  of  the  dew 

Is  her  unconscious  teaching. 

'•'  And  never  tenderer  hand  than  hers 
Unknits  the  brow  of  ailing  ; 

Her  garments  to  the  sick  man's  ear 
Have  music  in  their  trailing. 

"  And  when,  in  pleasant  harvest  moons, 
The  youthful  huskers  gather, 

Or  sleigh-drives  on  the  mountain  ways 
Defy  the  winter  weather,  — 

"In     sugar- camps,    when     south    and 
warm 

The  winds  of  March  are  blowing, 
And  sweetly  from  its  thawing  veins 

The  maple's  blood  is  flowing,  — 

"  In  summer,  where  some  lilied  pond 

Its  virgin  zone  is  bearing, 
Or  where  the  ruddy  autumn  fire 

Lights  up  the  apple-paring,  — 

"  The  coarseness  of  a  ruder  time 

Her  finer  mirth  displaces, 
A  subtler  sense  of  pleasure  fills 

Each  rustic  sport  she  graces. 

"Her  presence   lends   its   warmth  and 
health 

To  all  who  come  before  it. 
If  woman  lost  us  Eden,  such 

As  she  alone  restore  it. 

"  For  larger  life  and  wiser  aims 

The  farmer  is  her  debtor  ; 
Who  holds  to  his  another's  heart 

Must  needs  be  worse  or  better. 


"  Through  her  his  civic  service  shows 

A  purer-toned  ambition  ; 
No  double  consciousness  divides 

The  man  and  politician. 

"  In  party's  doubtful  ways  he  trusts 

Her  instincts  to  determine  ; 
At    the    loud    polls,    the    thought    of 
her 

Recalls  Christ's  Mountain  Sermon. 

"  He  owns  her  logic  of  the  heart, 

And  wisdom  of  unreason, 
Supplying,  while  he  doubts  and  weighs, 

The  needed  word  in  season. 

"  He  sees  with  pride  her  richer  thought, 

Her  fancy's  freer  ranges  ; 
And  love  thus  deepened  to  respect 

Is  proof  against  all  changes. 

"  And  if  she  walks  at  ease  in  wrays 

His  feet  are  slow  to  travel, 
And  if  she  reads  with  cultured  eyes 

What  his  may  scarce  unravel, 

' '  Still  clearer,  for  her  keener  sight 

Of  beauty  and  of  wonder, 
He  learns  the  meaning  of  the  hills 

He  dwelt  from  childhood  under. 

"And   higher,    warmed    with    summer 
lights, 

Or  winter-crowned  and  hoary, 
The  ridged  horizon  lifts  for  him 

Its  inner  veils  of  glory. 

"  He  has  his  own  free,  bookless  lore, 
The  lessons  nature  taught  him, 

The    wisdom    which     the    woods    and 

hills 
And  toiling  men  have  brought  him  : 

"  The  steady  force  of  will  whereby 
Her  flexile  grace  seems  sweeter  ; 

The  sturdy  counterpoise  which  makes 
Her  woman's  life  completer  : 

' '  A  latent  fire  of  soul  which  lacks 
No  breath  of  love  to  fan  it ; 

And  wit,  that,  like  his  native  brooks, 
Plays  over  solid  granite. 

"  Howr  dwarfed  against  his  manliness 
She  sees  the  poor  pretension, 

The  wants,  the  aims,  the  follies,  born 
Of  fashion  and  convention  I 


THE   CLEAR   VISION. 


331 


"  How  life  behind  its  accidents 
Stands  strong  and  self-sustaining, 

The  human  fact  transcending  all 
The  losing  and  the  gaining. 

"And  so,  in  grateful  interchange 

Of  teacher  and  of  hearer, 
Their  lives  their  true  distinctness  keep 

While  daily  drawing  nearer. 

"  And  if  the  husband  or  the  wife 
In  home's  strong  light  discovers 

Such  slight  defaults  as  failed  to  meet 
The  blinded  eyes  of  lovers, 

"Why  need  we   care   to  ask? —  who 
dreams 

Without  their  thorns  of  roses, 
Or  wonders  that  the  truest  steel 

The  readiest  spark  discloses  ? 

"  For  still  in  mutual  sufferance  lies 

The  secret  of  true  living  : 
Love  scarce  is  love  that  never  knows 

The  sweetness  of  forgiving. 

"  We  send  the  Squire  to  General  Court, 
He  takes  his  young  wife  thither  ; 

No  prouder  man  election  day 

Rides  through  the  sweet  June  weather. 

' '  He  sees  with  eyes  of  manly  trust 

All  hearts  to  her  inclining  ; 
Not  less  for  him  his  household  light 

That  others  share  its  shining." 


Thus,    while   my  hostess  spake,    there 
grew 

Before  me,  warmer  tinted 
And  outlined  with  a  tenderer  grace, 

The  picture  that  she  hinted. 

The  sunset  smouldered  as  we  drove 
Beneath  the  deep  hill-shadows. 

Below  us  wreaths  of  white  fog  walked 
Like  ghosts  the  haunted  meadows. 

Sounding  the  summer  night,  the  stars 
Dropped   down   their    golden    plum 
mets  ; 

The  pale  arc  of  the  Northern  lights 
Rose  o'er  the  mountain  summits,  — 

Until,  at  last,  beneath  its  bridge, 
We  heard  the  Beareamp  flowing, 

And  saw  across  the  mapled  lawn 

The  welcome  home-lights  glowing  ;  — 

And,  musing  on  the  tale  I  heard, 
'T  were  well,  thought  I,  if  often 

To  rugged  farm-life  came  the  gift 
To  harmonize  and  soften  ;  — 

If  more  and  more  we  found  the  troth 

Of  fact  and  fancy  plighted, 
And  culture's  charm  and  labor's  strength 

In  rural  homes  united,  — 

The  simple  life,  the  homely  hearth, 
With  beauty's  sphere  surrounding, 

And  blessing  toil  where  toil  abounds 
With  graces  more  abounding. 


MISCELLANEOUS     POEMS. 


THE   CLEAR  VISION. 

I  DID  but  dream.     I  never  knew 
What    charms    our    sternest    season 

wore. 
Was  never  yet  the  sky  so  blue, 

Was  never  earth  so  white  before. 
Till  now  I  never  saw  the  glow 
Of  sunset  on  yon  hills  of  snow, 
And  never  learned  the  bough's  designs 
Of  beauty  in  its  leafless  lines. 

Did  ever  such  a  morning  break 
As  that  my  eastern  windows  see  ? 


Did  ever  such  a  moonlight  take 
Weird    photographs    of    shrub    and 

tree? 

Rang  ever  bells  so  wild  and  fleet 
The  music  of  the  winter  street  ? 
Was  ever  yet  a  sound  by  half 
So  merry  as  yon  school-boy's  laugh  ? 

0  Earth  !  with  gladness  overfraught, 
iS  o  added  charm  thy  face  hath  found  ; 

Within  my  heart  the  change  is  wrought, 
My  footsteps  make  enchanted  ground. 

From  couch  of  pain  and  curtained  room 

Forth  to  tliy  light  and  air  I  come, 


332 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


To  find  in  all  that  meets  my  eyes 
The  freshness  of  a  glad  surprise. 

Fair  seem  these  winter  days,  and  soon 
Shall  blow  the  warm  west-winds  of 

spring 
To  set  the  unbound  rills  in  tune, 

And  hither  urge  the  bluebird's  wing. 
The  vales  shall    laugh    in  flowers,  the 

woods 

Grow  misty  green  with  leafing  buds, 
And  violets  and  wind-flowers  sway, 
Against  the  throbbing  heart  of  May. 

Break   forth,   my   lips,   in   praise,    and 
own 

The  wiser  love  severely  kind  ; 
Since,  richer  for  its  chastening  grown, 

I  see,  whereas  1  once  was  blind. 
The  world,  0  Father  !  hath  not  wronged 
With  loss  the  life  by  thee  prolonged  ; 
But  still,  with  every  added  year, 
More  beautiful  thy  works  appear  ! 

As  thou  hast  made  thy  world  without, 
Make  thou  more  fair  my  world  with 
in  ; 
Shine  through   its   lingering   clouds  of 

doubt ; 

Eebuke  its  haunting  shapes  of  sin  ; 
Fill,  brief  or  long,  my  granted  span 
Of  life  with  love  to  thee  and  man  ; 
Strike  when  thou  wilt  the  hour  of  rest, 
But  let  my  last  days  be  my  best  ! 
2d  mo. ,  1868. 


THE  DOLE  OF  JARL  THORKELL, 

THE  land  was  pale  with  famine 
And  racked  with  fever-pain  ; 

The  frozen  fiords  were  fishless, 
The  earth  withheld  her  grain. 

Men  saw  the  boding  Fylgja 

Before  them  come  and  go, 
And,  through  their  dreams,  the  Urdar. 
moon 

From  west  to  east  sailed  slow  5 

Jarl  Thorkell  of  Thevera 

At  Yule-time  made  his  vow  ; 

On  Rykdal's  holy  Doom-stone 
He  slew  to  Frey  his  cow. 

To  bounteous  Frey  he  slew  her  ; 
To  Skuld,  the  younger  Norn, 


Who  watches  over  birth  and  death, 
He  gave  her  calf  unborn. 

And  his  little  gold-haired  daughter 

Took  up  the  sprinkling-rod, 
And  smeared  with  blood  the  temple 

And  the  wide  lips  of  the  god. 

Hoarse  below,  the  winter  water 

Ground  its  ice-blocks  o'er  and  o'er  -, 

Jets  of  foam,  like  ghosts  of  dead  waves. 
Rose  and  fell  along  the  shore. 

The  red  torch  of  the  Jokul, 

Aloft  in  icy  space, 
Shone  down  on  the  bloody  Horg-stone^ 

And  the  statue's  carven  face. 

And  closer  round  and  grimmer 

Beneath  its  baleful  light 
The  Jotun  shapes  of  mountains 

Came  crowding  through  the  night. 

The  gray-haired  Hersir  trembled 
As  a  flame  by  wind  is  blown  ; 

A  weird  power  moved  his  white  lips, 
And  their  voice  was  not  his  own  ! 

"  The  yEsir  thirst  !  "  he  muttered  ; 

' '  The  gods  must  have  more  blood 
Before  the  tun  shall  blossom 

Or  fish  shall  fill  the  flood. 

"  The  Msir  thirst  and  hunger, 
And  hence  our  blight  and  ban  ; 

The  mouths  of  the  strong  gods  water 
For  the  flesh  and  blood  of  man  ! 

"  Whom  shall  we  give  the  strong  ones  t 
Not  warriors,  sword  on  thigh  ; 

But  let  the  nursling  infant 
And  bedrid  old  man  die." 

"  So  be  it  !"  cried  the  young  men. 

"  There  needs  nor  doubt  nor  paiie"  ; 
But,  knitting  hard  his  red  brows, 

In  silence  stood  the  Jarl. 

A  sound  of  woman's  weeping 
At  the  temple  door  was  heard, 

But   the   old    men    bowed   their   white 

heads, 
And  answered  not  a  word. 

Then  the  Dream-wife  of  Thingvalla, 

A  Vala  young  and  fail1, 
Sang  softly,  stirring  with  her  breath 

The  veil  of  her  loose  hair. 


THE   TWO   RABBIS. 


333 


She  sang  :  ' '  The  winds  from  Alfheim 
Bring  never  sound  of  strife  ; 

The  gifts  for  Frey  the  meetest 
Are  not  of  death,  but  life. 

v<  He  loves  the  grass-green  meadows, 
The  grazing  kine's  sweet  breath  ; 

He  loathes  your  bloody  Horg-stones, 
Your  gifts  that  smell  of  death. 

' '  No  wrong  by  wrong  is  righted, 

No  pain  is  cured  by  pain  ; 
The  blood  that  smokes  from  Doom-rings 

Falls  back  in  redder  rain. 

"  The  gods  are  what  you  make  them, 
As  earth  shall  Asgard  prove  ; 

And  hate  will  come  of  hating, 
And  love  will  come  of  love. 

"  Make  dole  of  skyr  and  black  bread 
That  old  and  young  may  live  ; 

And  look  to  Frey  for  favor 
When  first  like  Frey  you  give. 

•'  Even  now  o'er  Njord's  sea-meadows 

The  summer  dawn  begins  : 
The  tun  shall  have  its  harvest, 

The  fiord  its  glancing  fins." 

Then  up  and  swore  Jarl  Thorkell  : 

' '  By  Gimli  and  by  Hel, 
0  Vala  of  Thingvalla, 

Thou  singest  wise  and  well ! 

"  Too  dear  the  ^Esir's  favors 

Bought  with  our  children's  lives ; 

Better  die  than  shame  in  living 
Our  mothers  and  our  wives. 

"  The  full  shall  give  his  portion 
To  him  who  hath  most  need  ; 

Of  curdled  skyr  and  black  bread, 
Be  daily  dole  decreed." 

He  broke  from  off  his  neck-chain 

Three  links  of  beaten  gold  ; 
And  each  man,  at  his  bidding, 

Brought  gifts  for  young  and  old. 

Then  mothers  nursed  their  children, 
And  daughters  fed  their  sires, 

And  Health  sat  down  with  Plenty 
Before  the  next  Yule  fires. 

The  Horg-stones  stand  in  Rykdal ; 
The  Doom- ring  still  remains  ; 


But  the  snows  of  a  thousand  winters 
Have,  washed  away  the  stains. 


Christ  ruleth  now  ;  the 

Have  found  their  twilight  dim  ; 
And,  wiser  than  she  dreamed,  of  old 

The  Vala  sang  of  Him  ! 


THE   TWO    EABBIS. 

THE  Rabbi  Nathan,  twoscore  years  and 

ten, 
Walked     blameless     through    the    evil 

world,  and  then, 
Just  as  the  almond  blossomed  in  his 

hair, 

Met  a  temptation  all  too  strong  to  bear, 
And  miserably  sinned.  So,  adding  not 
Falsehood  to  guilt,  he  left  his  seat,  and 

taught 

No  more  among  the  elders,  but  went  out 
From  the  great  congregation  girt  about 
With  sackcloth,  and  with  ashes  on  his 

head, 
Making  his  gray  locks  grayer.     Long  he 

prayed, 
Smiting  his  breast ;  then,  as  the  Book 

he  laid 
Open    before  him    for  the    Bath -Col's 

choice, 
Pausing    to   hear  that   Daughter  of  a 

Voice, 
Behold  the  royal  preacher's  words  :  "A 

r>    •  i     "  * 

mend 

Loveth  at  all  times,  yea,  unto  the  end  ; 
And  for  the  evil  day  thy  brother  lives." 
Marvelling,  he  said  :  "  It  is  the  Lord 

who  gives 

Counsel  in  need.     At  Ecbatana  drells 
Rabbi  Ben  Isaac,  who  all  men  excels 
In   righteousness  and   wisdom,    as   the 

trees 
Of  Lebanon  the  small  weeds  that  the 

bees  ,' 

Bow  with  their  weight.     I  will  arise, 

and  lay 
My  sins  before  him." 

And  he  went  his  way 
Barefooted,    fasting    long,    with    many 

prayers  ; 

But  even  as  one  who,   followed  una 
wares, 

Suddenly  in  the  darkness  feels  a  hand 
Thrill  with  its  touch  his  own,  and  his 
cheek  fanned 


334 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


By  odors  subtly  sweet,  and  whispers  near 
Of  words  lie  loathes,  yet  cannot  choose 

but  hear, 
So,  while  the  Rabbi  journeyed,  chanting 

low 

The  wail  of  David's  penitential  woe, 
Before  him  still  the  old  temptation  came, 
And  mocked  him  with  the  motion  and 

the  shame 

.Of  such  desires  that,  shuddering,  he  ab 
horred 
Himself  ;    and,  crying  mightily  to  the 

Lord 

To  free  his  soul  and  cast  the  demon  out, 
Smote  with  his  staff  the  blaukness  round 
about. 

At  length,  in  the  low  light  of  a  spent 

day, 

The  towers  of  Ecbatana  far  away 
Rose  on  the  desert's  rim  ;  and  Nathan, 

faint 
And  footsore,  pausing  where  for  some 

dead  saint 

The  faith  of  Islam  reared  a  domed  tomb, 
Saw  some  one  kneeling  in  the  shadow, 

whom 
He  greeted   kindly  :    "  May  the    Holy 

One 
Answer     thy    prayers,     0    stranger ! " 

Whereupon 
The  shape  stood  up  with  a  loud  cry,  and 

then, 
Clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  the  two 

gray  men 

Wept,  praising  Him  whose  gracious  prov 
idence 
Made  their  paths  one.     But  straightway, 

as  the  sense 
Of  his  transgression  smote  him,  Nathan 

tore 
Himself  away  :  "  0  friend  beloved,  no 

more 

Worthy  am  I  to  touch  thee,  for  I  came, 
Foul  from  my  sins,  to  tell  thee  all  my 

shame. 
Haply  thy  prayers,  since  naught  availeth 

mine, 
May  purge  my  soul,  and  make  it  white 

like  thine. 
Pity  me,  0  Ben  Isaac,  I  have  sinned !  " 

Awestruck  Ben  Isaac  stood.  The  des 
ert  wind 

Blew  his  long  mantle  backward,  laying 
bare 

The  mournful  secret  of  his  shirt  of  hair. 


"  I  too,  0  friend,  if  not  in  act,"  he  said, 

"In  thought  have  verily  sinned.  Hast 
thou  not  read, 

'  Better  the  eye  should  see  than  that  de 
sire 

Should  wander '  ?  Burning  with  a  hid 
den  fire 

That  tears  and  prayers  quench  not,  I 
come  to  thee 

For  pity  and  for  help,  as  thou  to  me. 

Pray  for  me,  0  my  friend  !  "  But  Na 
than  cried, 

"  Pray  thou  for  me,  Ben  Isaac  !  " 

Side  by  side 

In  the  low  sunshine  by  the  turban  stone 
They  knelt ;  each  made  his  brother's  woe 

his  own, 

Forgetting,  in  the  agony  and  stress 
Of  pitying  love,  his  claim  of  selfishness  ; 
Peace,  for  his  friend  besought,  his  own 

became.  ; 
His  prayers  were  answered  in  another's 

name  ; 

And,  when  at  last  they  rose  up  to  em 
brace, 

Each  saw  God's  pardon  in  his  brother's 
face  ! 

Long  after,  when  his  headstone  gathered 
moss, 

Traced  on  the  targum-marge  of  Onkelos 

In  Rabbi  Nathan's  hand  these  words 
were  read  : 

"  Hope  not  the  cure  of  sin  till  Self  is 
dead; 

Forget  it  in  love's  service,  and  the  debt 

Thou  canst  not  pay  the  angels  shall  for 
get ; 

\ffeaveris  gate  is  shut  to  him  who  comes 
alone  ; 

\Save  thou  a  sold,  and  it  shall  save  thy 
own  !  " 


THE    MEETING. 

THE  elder  folks  shook  hands  at  last, 
Down  seat  by  seat  the  signal  passed. 
To  simple  ways  like  ours  unused, 
Half  solemnized  and  half  amused, 
With  long-drawn  breath  and  shrug,  my 

guest 

His  sense  of  glad  relief  expressed. 
Outside  the  hills  lay  warm  in  sun  ; 
The  cattle  in  the  meadow-run 
Stood  half-leg  deep  ;  a  single  bird 


THE   MEETING. 


335 


The  green  repose  above  us  stirred. 

"  What  part  or  lot  have  you,"  he  said, 

"  In  these  dull  rites  of  drowsy-head  ? 

Is  silence  worship  ?     Seek  it  where 

It    soothes   with    dreams    the   summer 

air, 

Not  in  this  close  and  rude-benched  hall, 
But    where    soft    lights    and    shadows 

fall, 

And  all  the  slow,  sleep-walking  hours 
Glide  soundless  over  grass  and  llowers  ! 
From  time  and  place  and  form  apart, 
Its  holy  ground  the  human  heart, 
Nor  ritual-bound  nor  templeward 
Walks  the  free  spirit  of  the  Lord  ! 
Our  common  Master  did  not  pen 
His  followers  up  from  other  men  ; 
His  service  liberty  indeed, 
He  built  no  church,  he  framed  no  creed ; 
But  while  the  saintly  Pharisee 
Made  broader  his  phylactery, 
As  from  the  synagogue  was  seen 
The  dusty-sandalled  Nazarene 
Through  ripening  cornfields  lead  the  way 
Upon  the  awful  Sabbath  day, 
His  sermons  were  the  healthful  talk 
That  shorter  made  the  mountain-walk, 
His  wayside  texts  were  flowers  and  birds, 
Where  mingled  with  His  gracious  words 
The  rustle  of  the  tamarisk-tree 
And  ripple-wash  of  Galilee." 

"  Thy  words  are  well,  O  friend,"  I  said ; 

"  Unmeasured  and  unlimited, 

With  noiseless  slide  of  stone  to  stone, 

The  mystic  Church  of  God  has  grown. 

Invisible  and  silent  stands 

The  temple  never  made  with  hands, 

Unheard  the  voices  still  and  small 

Of  its  unseen  confessional. 

He  needs  no  special  place  of  prayer 

Whose  hearing  ear  is  everywhere  ; 

He  brings  not  back  the  childish  days 

That  ringed  the  earth  with    stones  of 

praise, 

Roofed  Karnak's  hall  of  gods,  and  laid 
The  plinths  of  Philse's  colonnade. 
Still  less  He  owns  the  selfish  good 
And  sickly  growth  of  solitude,  — 
The  worthless  grace  that,  out  of  sight, 
Flowers  in  the  desert  anchorite  ; 
Dissevered  from  the  suffering  whole, 
Love  hath  no  power  to  save  a  soul. 
Not  out  of  Self,  the  origin 
And  native  air  and  soil  of  sin, 
The  living  waters  spring  and  flow, 
The  trees  with  leaves  of  healing  grow. 


"  Dream  not,  0  friend,  because  I  seek 
This  quiet  shelter  twice  a  week, 
I  better  deem  its  pine-laid  floor 
Than  breezy  hill  or  sea-sung  shore  ; 
But  nature  is  not  solitude  : 
She  crowds  us  with  her  thronging  wood ; 
Her  many  hands  reach  out  to  us, 
Her  many  tongues  are  garrulous  ; 
Perpetual  riddles  of  surprise 
She  offers  to  our  ears  and  eyes ; 
She  will  not  leave  our  senses  still, 
But  drags  them  captive  at  her  will  : 
And,  making  earth  too  great  for  heaven. 
She  hides  the  Giver  in  the  given. 

"  And  so,  I  find  it  well  to  come 
For  deeper  rest  to  this  still  room, 
For  here  the  habit  of  the  soul 
Feels  less  the  outer  world's  control ; 
The  strength  of  mutual  purpose  pleads 
More  earnestly  our  common  needs  ; 
And  from  the  silence  multiplied 
By  these  still  forms  on  either  side, 
The   world  that  time  and  sense  have 

known 
Falls  off  and  leaves  us  God  alone. 

"  Yet  rarely  through  the  charmed  repose 
Unmixed  the  stream  of  motive  flows, 
A  flavor  of  its  many  springs, 
The  tints  of  earth  and  sky  it  brings  ; 
In  the  still  waters  needs  must  be 
Some  shade  of  human  sympathy  ; 
And  here,  in  its  accustomed  place, 
I  look  on  memory's  dearest  face  ; 
The  blind  by- sitter  guesseth  not 
What  shadow  haunts  that  vacant  spot; 
No  eyes  save  mine  alone  can  see 
The  love  wherewith  it  welcomes  me  ! 
And  still,  with  those  alone  my  kin, 
In  doubt  and  weakness,  want  and  sin3 
I  bow  my  head,  my  heart  I  bare 
As  when  that  face  was  living  there, 
And  strive  (too  oft,  alas  !  in  vain) 
The  peace  of  simple  trust  to  gain, 
Fold  fancy's  restless  wings,  and  lay 
The  idols  of  my  heart  away. 

"  Welcome  the  silence  all  unbroken, 
Nor  less  the  words  of  fitness  spoken,  — 
Such  golden  words  as  hers  for  whom 
Our  autumn  flowers    have   just  made 

room  ; 
Whose  hopeful  utterance  through  and 

through 

The  freshness  of  the  morning  blew  ; 
Who  loved  not  less  the  earth  that  light 


336 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


Fell  on  it  from  the  heavens  in  sight, 
But  saw  in  all  fair  forms  more  fair 
The  Eternal  beauty  mirrored  there. 
Whose  eighty  years  but  added  grace 
And  saintlier  meaning  to  her  face,  — 
The  look  of  one  who  bore  away 
(Had  tidings  from  the  hills  of  day, 
While  all  our  hearts  went  forth  to  meet 
The  coming  of  her  beautiful  feet  ! 
Or  haply  hers,  whose  pilgrim  tread 
Is  in  the  paths  where  Jesus  led  ; 
Who   dreams    her   childhood's   sabbath 

dream 

By  Jordan's  willow-shaded  stream, 
And,  of  the  hymns  of  hope  and  faith, 
Sung  by  the  monks  of  Nazareth, 
Hears  pious  echoes,  in  the  call 
To  prayer,  from  Moslem  minarets  fall, 
Repeating  where  His  works  were  wrought 
The  lesson  that  her  Master  taught, 
Of  whom  an  elder  Sibyl  gave, 
The  prophecies  of  Cumse's  cave  ! 

"  I  ask  no  organ's  soulless  breath 

To  drone  the  themes  of  life  and  death, 

No  altar  candle-lit  by  day, 

N"o  ornate  wordsman's  rhetoric-play, 

Ko  cool  philosophy  to  teach 

Its  bland  audacities  of  speech 

To  double-tasked  idolaters 

Themselves  their  gods  and  worshippers, 

No  pulpit  hammered  by  the  fist 

Of  loud-asserting  dogmatist, 

Who  borrows  from  the  hand  of  love 

The  smoking  thunderbolts  of  Jove. 

I  know  how  well  the  fathers  taught, 

What     work     the     later       schoolmen 

wrought ; 

\  reverence  old-time  faith  and  men, 
•>ut  God  is  near  us  now  as  then ; 
His  force  of  love  is  s'ill  unspent, 
His  hate  of  sin  as  imminent; 
And  still  the  measure  of  our  needs 
Outgrows     the     cramping    bounds    of 

creeds  ; 

The  manna  gathered  yesterday 
Already  savors  of  decay ; 
Doubts  to  the  world's  child-heart  un 
known 

Question  us  now  from  star  and  stone ; 
Too  little  or  too  much  we  know, 
And  sight  is  swift  and  faith  is  slow ; 
The  power  is  lost  to  self-deceive 
With  shallow  forms  of  make-believe. 
We  walk  at  high  noon,  and  the  bells 
Pall  to  a  thousand  oracles, 
But  the  sound  deafens,  and  the  light 


Is  stronger  than  our  dazzled  sight ; 
The  letters  of  the  sacred  Book 
Glimmer  and  swim  beneath  our  look ; 
Still  struggles  in  the  Age's  breast 
With  deepening  agony  of  quest 
The  old  entreaty :   '  Art  thou  He, 
Or  look  we  for  the  Christ  to  be  ? ' 

' '  God   should   be   most   where  man  is 

least : 

So,  where  is  neither  church  nor  priest, 
And  never  rag  of  form  or  creed 
To  clothe  the  nakedness  of  need,  — 
Where  farmer-folk  in  silence  meet,  — 
I  turn  my  bell-unsummoned  feet ; 
I  lay  the  critic's  glass  aside, 
I  tread  upon  my  lettered  pride, 
And,  lowest-seated,  testify 
To  the  oneness  of  humanity  ; 
Confess  the  universal  want, 
And  share  whatever  Heaven  may  grant. 
He  findeth  not  who  seeks  his  own, 
The  soul  is  lost  that 's  saved  alone. 
Not  on  one  favored  forehead  fell 
Of  old  the  fire-tongued  miracle, 
But  flamed  o'er  all  the  thronging  host 
The  baptism  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; 
Heart  answers  heart :  in  one  desire 
The  blending  lines  of  prayer  aspire ; 
'  Where,    in    my    name,    meet  two    01 

throe,' 
Our  Lord  hath  said,  *  I  there  will  be  ! ' 

"So    sometimes     comes    to    soul     and 

sense 

The  feeling  which  is  evidence 
That  very  near  about  us  lies 
The  realm  of  spiritual  mysteries. 
The  sphere  of  the  supernal  powers 
Impinges  on  this  world  of  ours. 
The  low  and  dark  horizon  lifts, 
To  light  the  scenic  terror  shifts  ; 
The  breath  of  a  diviner  air 
Blows  down  the  answer  of  a  prayer : 
That  all  our  sorrow,  pain,  and  doubt 
A  great  compassion  clasps  about, 
And  law  and  goodness,  love  and  force, 
Are  wedded  fast  beyond  divorce. 
Then  duty  leaves  to  love  its  task, 
The  beggar  Self  forgets  to  ask  ; 
With  smile  of  trust  and  folded  hands, 
The  passive  soul  in  waiting  stands 
To  feel,  as  flowers  the  sun  and  dew, 
The  One  true  Life  its  own  renew. 

"  So,  to  the  calmly  gathered  thought 
The  innermost  of  truth  is  taught, 


THE   ANSWElt. 


337 


The  mystery  dimly  understood, 

That  love  of  God  is  love  of  good, 

And,  chiefly,  its  divinest  trace 

In  Him  of  Nazareth's  holy  face; 

That  to  be  saved  is  only  this,  — 

Salvation  from  our  selfishness, 

From  more  than  elemental  fire, 

The  soul's  unsanctified  desire, 

From  sin  itself,  and  not  the  pain 

That  warns  us  of  its  chafing  chain ; 

That  worship's  deeper  meaning  lies 

In  mercy,  and  not  sacrifice, 

Not  proud  humilities  of  sense 

And  posturing  of  penitence, 

But  love's  unforced  obedience ; 

That  Book  and  Church    and   Day  are 

given 
For    man,    not    God,  —  for   earth,    not 

heaven,  — 

The  blessed  means  to  holiest  ends, 
Not  masters,  but  benignant  friends ; 
That  the  dear  Christ  dwells  not  afar, 
The  king  of  some  remoter  star, 
Listening,  at  times,  with  flattered  ear 
To  homage  wrung  from  selfish  fear, 
But  here,  amidst  the  poor  and  blind, 
The  bound  and  suffering  of  our  kind, 
hi  works  we  do,  in  prayers  we  pray, 
Life  of  our  life,  he  lives  to-day." 


THE   ANSWER. 

SPARE  me,  dread  angel  of  reproof, 
And  let  the  sunshine  weave  to-day 

Its  gold-threads  in  the  warp  and  woof 
Of  life  so  poor  and  gray. 

Spare  me  awhile ;  the  flesh  is  weak. 

These  lingering  feet,  that  fain  would 

stray 
Among  the  flowers,  shall  some  day  seek 

The  strait  and  narrow  way. 

Take  off  thy  ever- watchful  eye, 
The  awe  of  thy  rebuking  frown  ; 

The  dullest  slave  at  times  must  sigh 
To  fling  his  burdens  down  ; 

To  drop  his  galley's  straining  oar, 

And  press,  in  summer  warmth  and 
calm, 

The  lap  of  some  enchanted  shore 
Of  blossom  and  of  balm. 

Grudge  not  my  life  its  hour  of  bloom, 
My  heart  its  taste  of  long  desire ; 
22 


This  day  be  mine  :  be  those  to  come 
As  duty  shall  require. 

The  deep  voice  answered  to  my  own, 
Smiting  my  selfish  prayers  away ; 

"  To-morrow  is  with  God  alone, 
And  man  hath  but  to-day. 

' '  Say  not,  thy  fond,  vain  heart  within, 
The  Father's  arm  shall  still  be  wide, 

When  from  these  pleasant  ways  of  sin 
Thou  tum'st  at  eventide. 

' '  '  Cast  thyself  down, '  the  tempter  saith, 
'And  angels  shall  thy  feet  upbear.' 

He  bids  thee  make  a  lie  of  faith, 
And  blasphemy  of  prayer. 

"Though  God   be  good   and   free     be 
Heaven, 

No  force  divine  can  love  compel ; 
And,  though  the  song  of  sins  forgiven 

May  sound  through  lowest  hell, 

' '  The  sweet  persuasion  of  His  voice 
Respects  thy  sanctity  of  will. 

He  giveth  day :  thou  hast  thy  choice 
To  walk  in  darkness  still ; 

' '  As  one  who,  turning  from  the  light, 
Watches  his  own  gray  shadow  fall, 

Doubting,  upon  his  path  of  night, 
If  there  be  day  at  all  ! 

"No   word   of    doom    may  shut    thee 

out, 
No   wind  of    wrath   may    downward 

whirl, 

No  swords  of  fire  keep  watch  about 
The  open  gates  of  pearl ; 

"A  tenderer  light  than  moon  or  sun, 
Than  song  of  earth  a  sweeter  hymn, 

May  shine  and  sound  forever  on, 
And  thou  be  deaf  and  dim. 

"Forever  round  the  Mercy-seat 
The    guiding    lights    of    Love   shall 
burn  ; 

But  what  if,  habit-bound,  thy  feet 
Shall  lack  the  will  to  turn  ? 

"  What  if  thine  eye  refuse  to  see, 
Thine  ear  of  Heaven's  free  welcome 
fail, 

And  thou  a  willing  captive  be, 
Thyself  thy  own  dark  jail? 


338 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


"  0  doom  beyond  the  saddest  guess, 
As  the  long  years  of  God  unroll 

To  make  thy  dreary  selfishness 
The  prison  of  a  soul ! 

"To  doubt  the  love  that  fain  would 
break 

The  fetters  from  thy  self-bound  limb ; 
And  dream  that  God  can  thee  forsake 

As  thou  forsakest  him !  " 


G.    L.    S. 

HE  has  done  the  work  of  a  true  man,  — 
Crown  him,  honor  him,  love  him. 

Weep  over  him,  tears  of  woman, 
Stoop  manliest  brows  above  him  ! 

0  dusky  mothers  and  daughters, 
Vigils  of  mourning  keep  for  him  ! 

Up  in  the  mountains,  and  down  by  the 

waters, 
Lift  up  your  voices  and  weep  for  him  ! 

For  the  warmest  of  hearts  is  frozen, 

The  freest  of  hands  is  still ; 
And  the  gap  in  our  picked  and  chosen 

The  long  years  may  not  fill. 

No  duty  could  overtask  him, 

No  need  his  will  outrun  ; 
Or  ever  our  lips  could  ask  him, 

His  hands  the  work  had  done. 

He  forgot  his  own  soul  for  others, 
Himself  to  his  neighbor  lending ; 

He  found   the    Lord  in   his  suffering 

brothers, 
And  not  in  the  clouds  descending. 

So  the  bed  was  sweet  to  die  on, 

Whence  he  saw  the  doors  wide  swung 

Against  whose  bolted  iron 

The  strength  of  his  life  was  flung. 

And  he  saw  ere  his  eye  was  darkened 
The  sheaves  of  the  harvest-bringing, 

And  knew  while  his  ear  yet  hearkened 
The  voice  of  the  reapers  singing. 

Ah,  well !  —  The  world  is  discreet ; 

There  are  plenty  to  pause  and  wait ; 
But  here  was  a  man  who  set  his  feet 

Sometimes  in  advance  of  fate,  — 

Plucked  off  the  old  bark  when  the  inner 
Was  slow  to  renew  it, 


And  put  to  the  Lord's  work  the  sinner 
When  saints  failed  to  do  it. 

Never  rode  to  the  wrong's  redressing 

A  worthier  paladin. 
Shall  he  not  hear  the  blessing, 

"  Good  and  faithful,  enter  in  ! " 


FREEDOM   IN   BRAZIL. 

WITH  clearer  light,  Cross  of  the  South, 

shine  forth 

In  blue  Brazilian  skies  ; 
And   thou,  0  river,   cleaving  half  the 

earth 

From  sunset  to  sunrise, 
From  the   great  mountains  to  the  At 
lantic  waves 

Thy  joy's  long  anthem  pour. 
Yet  a  few  days  (God  make  them  less  !) 

and  slaves 

Shall  shame  thy  pride  no  more. 
No  fettered   feet    thy   shaded    margins 

press  ; 

But  all  men  shall  walk  free 
Where  thou,  the  high-priest  of  the  wil 
derness, 
Hast  wedded  sea  to  sea. 

And  thou,  great-hearted  ruler,  through 

whose  mouth 
The  word  of  God  is  said, 
Once   more,  "Let   there   be  light  !"- 

Son  of  the  South, 
Lift  up  thy  honored  head, 
Wear  unashamed  a  crown  by  thy  desert 

More  than  by  birth  thy  own, 
Careless  of  watch  and  ward  ;    thou  art 

begirt 

By  grateful  hearts  alone. 
The  moated  wall  and   battle-ship   may 

fail, 

But  safe  shall  justice  prove  ; 
Stronger  than   greaves  of  brass  or  iron 

mail 
The  panoply  of  love. 

Crowned  doubly  by  man's  blessing  and 

God's  grace, 
Thy  future  is  secure  ; 
Who  frees  a  people  makes  his  statue's 

place 

In  Time's  Valhalla  sure. 
Lo  !  from  his  Neva's  banks  the  Scythian 

Czar 
Stretches  to  thee  his  hand, 


LINES   ON  A   FLY-LEAF. 


339 


Who,  with  the  pencil  of  the  Northern 

star, 

Wrote  freedom  on  his  land. 
And  he  whose  grave  is    holy   by  our 

calm 

And  prairied  Sangamon, 
From  his    gaunt    hand  shall   drop   the 

martyr's  palm 
To  greet  thee  with  "  Well  done  !  " 

And  thou,  0    Earth,  with   smiles   thy 

face  make  sweet, 
And  let  thy  wail  be  stilled, 
To  hear  the  Muse  of  prophecy  repeat 

Her  promise  half  fulfilled. 
The  Voice  that  spake  at  Nazareth  speaks 

still, 

No  sound  thereof  hath  died  ; 
Alike  thy  hope    and   Heaven's  eternal 

will 

Shall  yet  be  satisfied. 
The  years  are  slow,  the  vision  tarrieth 

long, 

And  far  the  end  may  be  ; 
But,  one  by  one,  the  fiends  of  ancient 

wrong 
Go  out  and  leave  thee  free. 


DIVINE   COMPASSION. 

LONG  since,  a  dream  of  heaven  I  had, 
And  still  the  vision  haunts  me  oft ; 

I  see  the  saints  in  white  robes  clad, 
The  martyrs  with  their  palms  aloft ; 

But  hearing  still,  in  middle  song, 
The  ceaseless  dissonance  of  wrong ; 

And  shrinking,  with  hid  faces,  from  the 
strain 

Of  sad,  beseeching  eyes,  full  of  remorse 
and  pain. 

The  glad  song  falters  to  a  wail, 
The  harping  sinks  to  low  lament ; 

Before  the  still  uplifted  veil 

I  see  the  crowned  foreheads  bent, 

Making  more  sweet  the  heavenly  air, 
With  breathings  of  unselfish  prayer  ; 

And  a  Voice  saith  :  "  0  Pity  which  is 
pain, 

0  Love  that  weeps,  fill  up  my  sufferings 
which  remain  ! 

"  Shall  souls  redeemed  by  me  refuse 
To  share  my  sorrow  in  their  turn  ? 

Or,  sin-forgiven,  my  gift  abuse 
Of  peace  with  selfish  unconcern  ? 


Has  saintly  ease  no  pitying  care  ? 

Has  faith  no  work,  and  love  no  prayer ! 
While  sin  remains,  and  souls  in  dark 
ness  dwell, 

Can  heaven  itself  be  heaven,  and  look 
unmoved  on  hell  ?  " 

Then  through  the  Gates  of  Pain,  I  dream, 

A  wind  of  heaven  blows  coolly  in  ; 
Fainter  the  awful  discords  seem, 

The  smoke  of  torment  grows  more  thin, 
Tears  quench    the    burning    soil,    and 

thence 

Spring  sweet,  pale  flowers  of  penitence ; 
And  through  the  dreary  realm  of  man's 

despair, 

Star-crowned   an   angel   walks,  and  lo  ! 
God's  hope  is  there ! 

Is  it  a  dream  ?     Is  heaven  so  high 
That  pity  cannot  breathe  its  air  ? 

Its  happy  eyes  forever  dry, 

Its  holy  lips  without  it  prayer  ! 

My  God  !  my  God  !  if  thither  led 
By  thy  free  grace  unmerited, 

No  crown  nor  palm  be  mine,  but  let  me 
keep 

A  heart  that  still  can  feel,  and  eyes  that 
still  can  weep. 


LINES  ON  A  FLY-LEAF. 

I  NEED  not  ask  thee,  for  my  sake, 
To  read  a  book  which  well  may  make 
I  ts  way  by  native  force  of  wit 
Without  my  manual  sign  to  it- 
Its  piquant  writer  needs  from  me 
No  gravely  masculine  guaranty, 
And  well  might  laugh  her  merriest  laugh 
At  broken  spears  in  her  behalf; 
Yet,  spite  of  all  the  critics  tell, 
I  frankly  own  I  like  her  well. 
It  may  be  that  she  wields  a  pen 
Too    sharply   nibbed    for   thin-skinned 

men, 

That  her  keen  arrows  search  and  try 
The  armor  joints  of  dignity, 
And,  though  alone  for  error  meant, 
Sing  through  the  air  irreverent. 
I  blame  her  not,  the  young  athlete 
Who  plants  her  woman's  tiny  feet, 
And  dares  the  chances  of  debate 
Where  bearded  men  might  hesitate, 
Who,  deeply  earnest,  seeing  well 
The  ludicrous  and  laughable, 
Mingling  in  eloquent  excess 


340 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


Her  anger  and  her  tenderness, 
And,  chiding  with  a  half-caress, 
Strives,  less  for  her  own  sex  than  ours, 
With  principalities  and  powers, 
And  points  ns  upward  to  the  clear 
Sunned  heights  of  her  new  atmosphere. 

Heaven  mend  her  faults  !  —  I  will  not 

pause 

To  weigh  and  doubt  and  peck  at  flaws, 
Or  waste  my  pity  when  some  fool 
Provokes  her  measureless  ridicule. 
Strong-minded  is  she  ?     Better  so 
Than  dulness  set  for  sale  or  show, 
A  household  folly,  capped  and  belled 
1  n  fashion's  dance  of  puppets  held, 
Or  poor  pretence  of  womanhood, 
Whose  formal,  flavorless  platitude 
Is  warranted  from  all  offence 
Of  robust  meaning's  violence. 
Give  me  the  wine  of    thought   whose 

bead 

Sparkles  along  the  page  I  read. 
Electric  words  in  which  I  find 
The  tonic  of  the  northwest  wind,  — 
The  wisdom  which  itself  allies 
To  sweet  and  pure  humanities, 
Where     scorn    of    meanness,    hate    of 

wrong, 

Are  underlaid  by  love  as  strong  : 
The  genial  play  of  mirth  that  lights 
Grave  themes  of  thought,  as,  when  on 

nights 

Of  summer-time,  the  harmless  blaze 
Of  thunderless  heat-lightning  plays, 
And  tree  and  hill-top  resting  dim 
And  doubtful  on  the  sky's  vague  rim, 
Touched  by  that  soft  and  lambent  gleam, 
Start  sharply  outlined  from  their  dream. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  woman's  sphere, 
Nor  point  with  Scripture  texts  a  sneer, 
Nor  wrong  the  manliest  saint  of  all 
By  doubt,  if  he  were  here,  that  Paul 
Would  own  the  heroines  who  have  lent 
Grace  to  truth's  stern  arbitrament, 
Foregone  the  praise  to  woman  sweet, 
And  cast  their  crowns  at  Duty's  feet ; 
Like  her,  who  by  her  strong  Appeal 
Made  Fashion  weep  and  Mammon  feel, 
Who,  earliest  summoned  to  withstand 
The  color-madness  of  the  land, 
Counted  her  life-long  losses  gain, 
And  made  her  own  her  sisters'  pain  ; 
Or  her  who,  in  her  greenwood  shade, 
Heard    the    sharp    call    that    Freedom 
made, 


And,  answering,  struck  from  Sappho's 

lyre 

Of  love  the  Tyrtrean  carmen's  fire  : 
Or  that  young  girl,  —  Domremy's  maid 
Revived  a  nobler  cause  to  aid,  — 
Shaking  from  warning  finger-tips 
The  doom  of  her  apocalypse  ; 
Or  her,  who  world-wide  entrance  gave 
To  the  log-cabin  of  the  slave, 
Made  all  his  want  and  sorrow  known, 
And  all  earth's  languages  his  own. 


HYMN 

FOR   THE   HOUSE   OF   WORSHIP   AT 
GEORGETOWN. 

ERECTED  IN  MEMORY  OF  A  MOTHER. 

THOU  dwellest  not,  0  Lord  of  all  ! 

In  temples  which  thy  children  raise  ; 
Our  work  to  thine  is  mean  and  small, 

And  brief  to  thy  eternal  days. 

Forgive  the  weakness  and  the  pride, 
If  marred  thereby  our  gift  may  be, 

For  love,  at  least,  has  sanctified 
The  altar  that  we  rear  to  thee. 

The  heart  and  not  the  hand  has  wrought 
From  sunken  base  to  tower  above 

The  image  of  a  tender  thought, 
The  memory  of  a  deathless  love  ! 

And   though    should    never    sound    of 
speech 

Or  organ  echo  from  its  wall, 
Its  stones  would  pious  lessons  teach, 

Its  shade  in  benedictions  fall. 

Here  should  the  dove  of  peace  be  found, 
And  blessings  and  not  curses  given  ; 

Nor  strife  profane,  nor  hatred  wound, 
The  mingled  loves  of  earth  and  heaven. 

Thou,    who    didst   soothe    with    dying 
breath 

The  dear  one  watching  by  thy  cross, 
Forgetful  of  the  pains  of  death 

In  sorrow  for  her  mighty  loss, 

In  memory  of  that  tender  claim, 
0  Mother-born,  the  offering  take, 

And  make  it  worthy  of  thy  name, 
And  bless  it  for  a  mother's  sake  J 


MIRIAM. 


341 


MIRIAM, 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


TO  FREDERICK  A.  P.  BARNARD. 

THE  years  are  many  since,  in  youth  and 
hope, 

Under  the  Charter  Oak,  our  horoscope 

We  drew  thick-studded  with  all  favor 
ing  stars. 

Now,  with  gray  beards,  and  faces  seamed 
with  scars 

From   life's   hard  battle,  meeting  once 
again, 

"We   smile,  half  sadly,  over  dreams  so 
vain  ; 

Knowing,  at  last,  that  it  is  not  in  man 

Who  walketh  to  direct  his  steps,  or  plan 

His  permanent  house  of  life.     Alike  we 
loved 

The  muses'  haunts,  and  all  our  fancies 
moved 

To  measures  of  old  song.     How  since 
that  day 

Our  feet  have  parted  from  the  path  that 
lay 

So  fair  before  us  !     Rich,  from  lifelong 
search 

Of  truth,  within  thy  Academic  porch 

Thou  sittest  now,  lord  of  a  realm  of  fact, 

Thy  servitors  the  sciences  exact  ; 

Still   listening   with   thy  hand  on  Na 
ture's  keys, 

To  hear  the  Samian's  spheral  harmonies 

And   rhythm   of    law.       I    called   from 
dream  and  song, 

Thank  God  !  so  early  to  a  strife  so  long, 

That,  ere  it  closed,  the  black,  abundant 
hair 

Of  boyhood  rested  silver-sown  and  spare 

On  manhood's  temples,  now  at  sunset- 
chime 

Tread  with  fond  feet  the  path  of  morn 
ing  time. 

And  if  perchance  too  late  I  linger  where 

The   flowers  have  ceased  to  blow,  and 
trees  are  bare, 

Thou,  wiser  in  thy  choice,  wilt  scarcely 
blame 

The  friend  who  shields   his  folly  with 

thy  name. 
AMESOTJRY,  IQth  mo.,  18TOi 


MIRIAM. 

ONE  Sabbath  day  my  friend  and  I 
After  the  meeting,  quietly 
Passed  from  the  crowded  village  lanes, 
White  with  dry  dust  for  lack  of  rains, 
And   climbed    the    neighboring    slope, 

with  feet 

Slackened  and  heavy  from  the  heat, 
Although  the  day  was  wellnigh  done, 
And  the  low  angle  of  the  sun 
Along  the  naked  hillside  cast 
Our  shadows  as  of  giants  vast. 
We   reached,    at  length,    the    topmost 

swell, 
Whence,    either  way,    the  green    turf 

fell 

In  terraces  of  nature  down 
To  fruit-hung  orchards,  and  the  town. 
WTith  white,  pretenceless  houses,  tall 
Church-steeples,  and,  o'ershadowing  all, 
Huge  mills   whose  windows    had    the 

look 

Of  eager  eyes  that  ill  could  brook 
The  Sabbath  rest.     We  traced  the  track 
Of  the  sea-seeking  river  back 
Glistening  for  miles  above  its  mouth, 
Through  the  long  valley  to  the  south, 
And,  looking  eastward,  cool  to  view, 
Stretched  the  illimitable  blue 
Of  ocean,  from  its  curved  coast-line  ; 
Sonibred  and  still,  the  warm  sunshine 
Filled  with  pale  gold-dust  all  the  reach 
Of    slumberous    woods    from    hill    to 

beach,  — 

Slanted  on  walls  of  thronged  retreats 
From  city  toil  and  dusty  streets, 
On  grassy  bluff',  and  dune  of  sand, 
And  rocky  islands  miles  from  land  ; 
Touched    the    far-glancing    sails,    and 

showed 
White  lines  of  foam  where  long  waves 

flowed 

Dumb  in  the  distance.     In  the  north, 
Dim  through  their  misty  hair,  looked 

forth 
The    space-dwarfed    mountains   to   the 

sea, 
From  mystery  to  mystery  1 


342 


MIRIAM. 


So,  sitting  on  that  green  hill-slope, 
We  talked  of  human  life,  its  hope 
And   fear,    and    unsolved   doubts,    and 

what 

It  might  have  been,  and  yet  was  not. 
And,  when  at  last  the  evening  air 
Grew  sweeter  for  the  bells  of  prayer 
Hinging  in  steeples  far  below, 
We  watehed  the  people  churchward  go, 
Each  to  his  place,  as  if  thereon 
The  true  shekinah  only  shone  ; 
And  my  friend  queried  how  it  came 
To  pass  that  they  who  owned  the  same 
Great  Master  still  could  not  agree 
To  worship  Him  in  company. 
Then,  broadening   in   his   thought,    he 

ran 

Over  the  whole  vast  field  of  man,  — 
The  varying  forms  of  faith  and  creed 
That    somehow     served    the    holders' 

need  ; 

T.n  which,  unquestioned,  undenied, 
Uncounted  millions  lived  and  died  ; 
The  bibles  of  the  ancient  folk, 
Through  which  the   heart  of   nations 

spoke  ; 

The  old  moralities  which  lent 
To  home  its  sweetness  and  content, 
And  rendered  possible  to  bear 
The  life  of  peoples  everywhere  : 
And  asked  if  we,  who  boast  of  light, 
Claim  not  a  too  exclusive  right 
To  truths  which  must  for  all  be  meant, 
Like  rain  and  sunshine  freely  sent. 
]n  bondage  to  the  letter  still, 
We  give  it  power  to  cramp  and  kill,  — 
To  tax  God's  fulness  with  a  scheme 
Narrower  than  Peter's  house-top  dream, 
His  wisdom  and  his  love  with  plans 
Poor  and  inadeqiiate  as  man's. 
It  must  be  that  He  witnesses 
Somehow  to  all  men  that  He  is  : 
That  something  of  His  saving  grace 
Reaches  the  lowest  of  the  race, 
Who,  through   strange   creed  and  rite, 

may  draw 

The  hints  of  a  diviner  law. 
We  walk  in  clearer  light ;  —  but  then, 
Is  He  not  God  ?  —  are  they  not  men  ? 
Are  His  responsibilities 
For  us  alone  and  not  for  these  ? 

And  I  made  answer  :   "  Truth  is  one  ; 
And,  in  all  lands  beneath  the  sun, 
Whoso  hath  eyes  to  see  may  see 
The  tokens  of  its  unity. 
No  scroll  of  creed  '  ts  fulness  wraps, 


We  trace  it  not  by  school-boy  maps, 

Free  as  the  sun  and  air  it  is 

Of  latitudes  and  boundaries. 

In  Vedic  verse,  in  dull  Koran, 

Are  messages  of  good  to  man  ; 

The  angels  to  our  Aryan  sires 

Talked  by  the  earliest  household  fires  ; 

The  prophets  of  the  elder  day, 

The  slant-eyed  sages  of  Cathay, 

Read  not  the  riddle  all  amiss 

Of  higher  life  evolved  from  this. 

"  Nor  doth  it  lessen  what  He  taught, 
Or  make  the  gospel  Jesus  brought 
Less  precious,  that  His  lips  retold 
Some  portion  of  that  truth  of  old  ; 
Denying  not  the  proven  seers, 
The  tested  wisdom  of  the  years  ; 
Confirming  with  his  own  impress 
The  common  law  of  righteousness. 
We  search  the  world  for  truth  ;  we  cull 
The  good,  the  pure,  the  beautiful, 
From  graven  stone  and  written  scroll, 
From  all  old  flower-fields  of  the  soul  ; 
And,  weary  seekers  of  the  best, 
We  come  back  laden  from  our  quest, 
To  find  that  all  the  sages  said 
Is  in  the  Book  our  mothers  read, 
And  all  our  treasure  of  old  thought 
In  His  harmonious  fulness  wrought 
Who  gathers  in  one  sheaf  complete 
The    scattered    blades    of    God's   sown 

wheat, 

The  common  growth  that  maketh  good 
His  all-embracing  Fatherhood. 

"Wherever  through  the  ages  rise 
The  altars  of  self-sacrifice, 
Where  love  its  arms  has  opened  wide, 
Or  man  for  man  has  calmly  died, 
I  see  the  same  white  wings  outspread 
That  hovered  o'er  the  Master's  head  ! 
Up  from  undated  time  they  come, 
The  martyr  souls  of  heathendom, 
And  to  His  cross  and  passion  bring 
Their  fellowship  of  suffering. 
I  trace  His  presence  in  the  blind 
Pathetic  gropings  of  my  kind,  - — 
In  prayers  from  sin  and  sorrow  wrung, 
In  cradle-hymns  of  life  they  sung, 
Each,  in  its  measure,  but  a  part 
Of  the  unmeasured  Over-Heart  ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  confess 
The  greater  that  it  owns  the  less. 
Good  cause  it  is  for  thankfulness 
That  the  world-blessing  of  His  life 
With  the  long  past  is  not  at  strife ; 


MIRIAM. 


343 


That  the  great  marvel  of  His  death 

To  the  one  order  witnesseth, 

No  doubt  of  changeless  goodness  wakes, 

No  link  of  cause  and  sequence  breaks, 

But,  one  with  nature,  rooted  is 

In  the  eternal  verities  ; 

Whereby,  while  differing  in  degree 

As  finite  from  infinity, 

The  pain  and  loss  for  others  borne, 

Love's  crown  of  suffering  meekly  worn, 

The  life  man  giveth  for  his  friend 

Become  vicarious  in  the  end  ; 

Their  healing  place  in  nature  take, 

And  make  life  sweeter  for  their  sake. 

"So  welcome  I  from  every  source 
The  tokens  of  that  primal  Force, 
Older  than  heaven  itself,  yet  new 
As  the  young  heart  it  reaches  to, 
Beneath  whose  steady  impulse  rolls 
The  tidal  wave  of  human  souls  ; 
Guide,  comforter,  and  inward  word, 
The  eternal  spirit  of  the  Lord  ! 
Nor  fear  I  aught  that  science  brings 
From       searching      through      material 

things  ; 

Content  to  let  its  glasses  prove, 
Not  by  the  letter's  oldness  move, 
The    myriad    worlds    on    worlds    that 

course 

The  spaces  of  the  universe  ; 
Since  everywhere  the  Spirit  walks 
The  garden  of  the  heart,  and  talks 
With  man,  as  under  Eden's  trees, 
In  all  his  varied  languages. 
Why  mourn  above  some  hopeless  flaw 
1  n  the  stone  tables  of  the  law, 
When  scripture  every  day  afresh 
Is  traced  on  tablets  of  the  flush  ? 
By  inward  sense,  by  outward  signs, 
God's  presence  still  the  heart  divines  ; 
Through  deepest  joy  of  Him  we  learn, 
In  sorest  grief  to  Him  we  turn, 
And  reason  stoops  its  pride  to  share 
The  child-like  instinct  of  a  prayer." 

And  then,  as  is  my  wont,  I  told 
A  story  of  the  days  of  old, 
Not    found     in     printed     books,  —  in 

sooth, 

A  fancy,  with  slight  hint  of  truth, 
Showing  how  differing  faiths  agree 
In  one  sweet  law  of  charity. 
Meanwhile  the  sky  had  golden  grown, 
Our  faces  in  its  glory  shone  ; 
But  shadows  down  the  valley  swept, 
And  gray  below  the  ocean  slept, 


As  time  and  space  I  wandered  o'er 
To  tread  the  Mogul's  marble  floor, 
And  see  a  fairer  sunset  fall 
On  Jumna's  wave  and  Agra's  wall. 


THE  good   Shah  Akbar   (peace  be  his 

alway ! ) 
Came  forth  from  the  Divan  at  close  of 

day- 
Bowed  with  the  burden   of  his  many 

cares, 
Worn  with  the  hearing  of  unnumbered 

prayers,  — 

Wild  cries  for  justice,  the  importunate 
Appeals  of  greed  and  jealousy  and  hate, 
And  all  the  strife  of  sect  and  creed  and 

rite, 

Santon  and  Gouroo  waging  holy  fight : 
For  the  wise  monarch,  claiming  not  to 

be 

Allah's  avenger,  left  his  people  free, 
With  a  faint    hope,    his   Book    scarce 

justified, 

That  all  the  paths  of  faith,  though  sev 
ered  wide, 

O'er  which  the  feet  of  prayerful  rever 
ence  passed, 
Met  at  the  gate  of  Paradise  at  last. 

He  sought  an  alcove  of  his  cool 
hareem, 

Where,  far  beneath,  he  heard  the 
Jumna's  stream 

Lapse  soft  and  low  along  his  palace 
wall, 

And  all  about  the  cool  sound  of  the  fall 

Of  fountains,  and  of  water  circling  free 

Through  marble  ducts  along  the  bal 
cony  ; 

The  voice  of  women  in  the  distance 
sweet, 

And,  sweeter  still,  of  one  who,  at  his 
feet. 

Soothed  his  tired  ear  with  songs  of  a 
far  land 

Where  Tagus  shatters  on  the  salt  sea- 
sand 

The  mirror  of  its  cork-grown  hills  of 
drouth 

And  vales  of  vine,  at  Lisbon's  harbor- 
mouth. 

The    date-palms    rustled    not  ;     the 

peepul  laid 

Its  topmost  boughs  against  the  balus 
trade, 


344 


MIRIAM. 


Motionless  as  the  mimic  leaves  and 
vines 

That,  light  and  graceful  as  the  shawl- 
designs 

Of  Delhi  or  Umritsir,  twined  in  stone  ; 

And  the  tired  monarch,  who  aside  had 
thrown 

The  day's  hard  burden,  sat  from  care 
apart, 

And  let  the  quiet  steal  into  his  heart 

From  the  still  hour.  Below  him  Agra 
slept, 

By  the  long  light  of  sunset  overswept : 

The  river  flowing  through  a  level  land, 

By  mango-groves  and  banks  of  yellow 
sand, 

Skirted  with  lime  and  orange,  gay 
kiosks, 

Fountains  at  play,  tall  minarets  of 
mosques, 

Fair  pleasure -gardens,  with  their  flow 
ering  trees 

Relieved  against  the  mournful  cypresses  ; 

And,  air-poised  lightly  as  the  blown 
sea-foam, 

The  marble  wonder  of  some  holy  dome 

Hung  a  white  moonrise  over  the  still 
wood, 

Glassing  its  beauty  in  a  stiller  flood. 

Silent  the  monarch  gazed,  until  the 

night 
Swift-falling    hid    the    city    from    his 

sight, 

Then  to  the  woman  at  his  feet  he  said  : 
"Tell  me,   0  Miriam,    something  thou 

hast  read 

In  childhood  of  the  Master  of  thy  faith, 
Whom  Islam  also  owns.     Our  Prophet 

saith  : 

'  He  was  a  true  apostle,  yea,  a  Word 
And   Spirit   sent   before   me   from    the 

Lord.' 
Thus  the  Book  witnesseth  ;  and  well  I 

know 

By  what  thou  art,  O  dearest,  it  is  so. 
As  the  lute's  tone  the  maker's  hand  be 
trays, 
The  sweet  disciple  speaks  her  Master's 

praise." 

Then  Miriam,    glad  of  heart,  (for  in 

some  sort 
She  cherished   in   the  Moslem's  liberal 

court 
The    sweet    traditions    of   a    Christian 

child ; 


And,  through  her  life  of  sense,  the  un« 

denied 

And  chaste  ideal  of  the  sinless  One 
Gazed  on  her  with  an  eye  she  might  not 

shun,  — 

The  sad,  reproachful  look  of  pity,  born 
Of  love  that  hath  no  part  in  wrath  or 

scorn,) 
Began,  with  low  voice  and  moist  eyes, 

to  tell 

Of  the  all-loving  Christ,  and  what  befell 
When  the   fierce  zealots,    thirsting   for 

her  blood, 

Dragged  to  his  feet  a  shame  of  woman 
hood. 
How,  when  his  searching  answer  pierced 

within 
Each  heart,  and  touched  the  secret  of 

its  sin, 

And  her  accusers  fled  his  face  before, 
He   bade   the   poor  one  go  and   sin  no 

more. 
And     Akbar    said,     after    a    moment's 

thought, 
"Wise  is  the  lesson  by  thy  prophet 

taught  ; 

Woe  unto  him  who  judges  and  forgets 
What  hidden  evil  his  own  heart  besets '. 
Something  of  this  large  charity  I  find 
In  all  the  sects  that  sever  human  kind  ; 
I  would  to  Allah  that  their  lives  agreed 
More   nearly   with   the   lesson  of  their 

creed  ! 

Those  yellow  Lamas  who  at  Meerut  pray 
By  wind  and  water  power,  and  love  to 

say  : 
'  He    who    forgivcth  not   shall,    unfor- 

given, 
Fail  of  the  rest  of  Buddha,'  and   who 

even 
Spare  the  black  gnat  that  stings  them, 

vex  my  ears 
With  the  poor  hates  and  jealousies  and 

fears 
Nursed   in   their   human   hives.     Th;it 

lean,  fierce  priest 

Of  thy   own   people,    (be  his  heart  in 
creased 
By    Allah's    love  ! )    his     black     robes 

smelling  yet 

Of  Goa's  roasted  Jews,  have  I  not  met 
Meek-faced,  barefooted,    crying   in   the 

street 
The   saying  of   his  prophet    true  and 

sweet,  — 
'He    who    is    merciful    shall    mercy 

meet  ! ' " 


MIRIAM. 


345 


But,  next  day,  so  it  chanced,  as  night 

began 
To  fall,  a  murmur  through  the  hareem 

ran 

That  one,  recalling  in  her  dusky  face 
The  full-lipped,   mild-eyed  beauty  of  a 

race 
Known   as    the    blameless    Ethiops    of 

Greek  song, 

Plotting  to  do  her  royal  master  wrong, 
Watching,   reproachful  of  the  lingering 

light, 
The   evening   shadows    deepen   for   her 

flight, 

Love-guided,  to  her  home  in  a  far  land, 
Now  waited  death  at  the   great  Shah's 

command. 

Shapely  as  that  dark  princess  for 
whose  smile 

A  world  was  bartered,  daughter  of  the 
Nile 

Herself,  and  veiling  in  her  large,  soft 
eyes 

The  passion  and  the  languor  of  her  skies, 

The  Abyssinian  knelt  low  at  the  feet 

Of  her  stern  lord:  "0  king,  if  it  be 
meet, 

And  for  thy  honor's  sake,"  she  said, 
"that  I, 

Who  am  the  humblest  of  thy  slaves, 
should  die, 

I  will  not  tax  thy  mercy  to  forgive. 

Easier  it  is  to  die  than  to  outlive 

All  that  life  gave  rue,  —him  whose 
wrong  of  thee 

Was  but  the  outcome  of  his  love  for 
me, 

Cherished  from  childhood,  when,  be 
neath  the  shade 

Of  templed  Axum,  side  by  side  we 
played. 

Stolen  from  his  arms,  my  lover  followed 
me 

Through  weary  seasons  over  land  and 
sea  ; 

And  two  days  since,  sitting  disconso 
late 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  hareem  gate, 

Suddenly,  as  if  dropping  from  the  sky, 

Down  from  the  lattice  of  the  balcony 

Fell  the  sweet  song  by  Tigre's  cow 
herds  sung 

In  the  old  music  of  his  native  tongue. 

He  knew  my  voice,  for  love  is  quick  of 
ear, 

Answering  in  song. 


This  night  he  waited  neat 
To  fly  with  me.     The   fault   was  mine 

alone : 
He  knew  thee  not,  he  did  but  seek  his 

own  ; 

Who,  in  the  very  shadow  of  thy  throne, 
Sharing  thy  bounty,  knowing  all  thou 

art, 
Greatest   and  best  of  men,  and  in  her 

heart 

Grateful  to  tears  for  favor  undeserved, 
Turned  ever   homeward,    nor   one  mo 
ment  swerved 
From  her  young  love.     He  looked  into 

my  eyes, 
He    heard    my   voice,    and    could   not 

otherwise 
Than  he  hath  done  ;  yet,  save  one  wild 

embrace 
When  first  we   stood   together  face   to 

face, 
And  all  that  fate  had  done  since  last  we 

met 

Seemed  but  a  dream  that  left  us  chil 
dren  yet, 
He  hath  not  wronged  thee  nor  thy  royal 

bed  ; 
Spare  him,  0  king  !  and  slay  me  in  his 

stead  !  " 

But   over  Akbar's  brows   the  frown 

hung  black, 

And,  turning  to  the  eunuch  at  his  back, 
"Take  them,"  he  said,   "and  let  the 

Jumna's  waves 
Hide  both  my  shame  and  these  accursed 

slaves  !" 

His  loathly  length  the   unsexed  bond 
man  bowed  : 
"On  my  head  be  it  !" 

Straightway  from  a  cloud 
Of  dainty   shawls   and   veils   of    woven 

mist 
The  Christian  Miriam  rose,  and,  stoop' 

ing,  kissed 
The  monarch's  hand.     Loose  down  her 

shoulders  bare 
Swept  all  the  rippled  darkness   of  her 

hair, 
Veiling  the  bosom  that,  with  high,  quick 

swell 
Of  fear  and  pity,  through  it  rose  and  fell. 

"Alas!"  she  cried,  "hast  thou  for 
gotten  quite 

The  words  of  Him  we  spake  of  yester 
night  ? 


346 


MIRIAM. 


Or  thy  own  prophet's,  —  '  Whoso  doth 
endure 

And  pardon,  of  eternal  life  is  sure  '  ? 

0  great  and  good  !  be  thy  revenge 
alone 

Felt  in  thy  mercy  to  the  erring  shown ; 

Let  thwarted  love  and  youth  their  par 
don  plead, 

Who  sinned  but  in  intent,  and  not  in 
deed  ! " 

One  moment  the  strong  frame  of  Akbar 

shook 
With  the  great  storm  of  passion.     Then 

his  look 

Softened  to  her  uplifted  face,  that  still 
Pleaded  more  strongly  than  all  words, 

until 

Its  pride  and  anger  seemed  like  over 
blown, 
Spent    clouds  of    thunder   left  to  tell 

alone 
Of  strife  and  overcoming.     With  bowed 

head, 
And  smiting  on  his  bosom  :  "  God,"  he 

said, 

"  Alone  is  great,  and  let  His  holy  name 
Be    honored,     even    to   His     servant's 

shame  ! 
Well   spake  thy  prophet,  Miriam,  - — he 

alone 
Who  hath  not  sinned  is  meet  to  cast  a 

stone 
At  such  as  these,  who  here  their  doom 

await, 
Held  like,  myself  in  the  strong  grasp  of 

fate. 
They  sinned  through  love,  as  I  through 

love  forgive ; 
Take   them   beyond   my  realm,  but  let 

them  live  ! " 

And,  like  a  chorus  to  the   words  of 

grace, 

The  ancient  Fakir,  sitting  in  his  place, 
Motionless  as  an  idol  and  as  grim, 
In  the  pavilion  Akbar  built  for  him 
Under  the  court-yard  trees,   (for  he  was 

wise, 
Knew   Menu's   laws,    and   through   his 

close-slmt  eyes 

Saw  things  far  off,  and  as  an  open  book 
Into   the  thoughts  of  other  men  could 

look,) 

Began,  half  chant,  half  howling,  to  re 
hearse 
The  fragment  of  a  holy  Vedic  verse  ; 


And  thus  it  ran:  "He  who  all  things 

forgives 
Conquers  himself  and    all   things  else, 

and  lives 
Above   the   reach  of  wrong  or  hate  or 

fear, 
Calm  as  the  gods,  to  whom  he  is  most 

dear." 

Two  leagues  from  Agra  still  the  trav 
eller  sees 

The  tomb  of  Akbar  through  its  cypress- 
trees  ; 

And,  near  at  hand,  the  marble  walls 
that  hide 

The  Christian  Begum  sleeping  at  his 
side. 

And  o'er  her  vault  of  burial  (who  shall 
tell 

If  it  be  chance  alone  or  miracle  ?) 

The  Mission  ^ress  with  tireless  hand 
unrolls 

The  words  of  Jesus  on  its  lettered 
scrolls,  — 

Tells,  in  all  tongues,  the  tale  of  mercy 
o'er, 

And  bids  the  guilty,  "  Go  and  sin  no 
more  ! " 


It  now  was  dew-fall ;  very  still 
The  night  lay  on  the  lonely  hill, 
Down  which  our  homeward  steps  we 

bent, 
And,     silent,     through     great     silence 

went, 

Save  that  the  tireless  crickets  played 
Their  long,  monotonous  serenade. 
A  young  moon,  at  its  narrowest, 
Curved    sharp    against    the    darkening 

west ; 

And,  momently,  the  beacon's  star, 
Slow  wheeling  o'er  its  rock  afar, 
From  out  the  level  darkness  shot 
One  instant  and  again  was  not. 
And  then  my  friend  spake  quietly 
The  thought  of  both:   "Yon  crescent 

see  ! 

Like  Islam's  symbol-moon  it  gives 
Hints  of  the  light  whereby  it  lives  : 
Somewhat  of  goodness,  something  true 
From  sun  and  spirit  shining  through 
All  faiths,   all  worlds,  as  through  the 

dark 

Of  ocean  shines  the  lighthouse  spark, 
Attests  the  presence  everywhere 
Of  love  and  providential  care. 


NOREMBEGA. 


347 


The  faith  the  old  Norse  heart  confessed 
In  one  dear  name,  —  the  hopefulest 
And  tenderest  heard  from  mortal  lips 
In  pangs  of  birth  or  death,  from  ships 


Ice-bitten  in  the  winter  sea, 
Or  lisped  beside  a  mother's  knee,  — 
The  wiser  world  hath  not  outgrown, 
And  the  All-Father  is  onr  own  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


NOKEMBEGA. 

[Norernbega,  or  Norimbegue,  is  the  name  given 
by  early  French  fishermen  and  explorers  to  a 
fabulous  country  south  of  Cape  Breton,  first  dis 
covered  by  Verrazzani  in  1524.  It  was  supposed 
to  have  a  magnificent  city  of  the  same  name  on 
a  great  river,  probably  the  Penobscot.  The  site 
of  this  barbaric  city  is  laid  down  on  a  map  pub 
lished  at  Antwerp  in  1570.  In  1604  ChaMiplain 
sailed  in  search  of  the  Northern  Eldorado,  twen 
ty-two  leagues  up  the  Penobscot  from  the  Isle 
Haute.  He  supposed  the  river  to  be  that  of 
Norembega,  but  wisely  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  those  travellers  who  told  of  the  great  city 
had  never  seen  it.  He  saw  no  evidences  of  any 
thing  like  civilization,  but  mentions  the  finding 
of  a  cross,  very  old  and  mossy,  in  the  woods.] 

THE  winding  way  the  serpent  takes 

The  mystic  water  took, 
From  where,  to  count  its  beaded  lakes, 

The  forest  sped  its  brook. 

A  narrow  space  'twixt  shore  and  shore, 

For  sun  or  stars  to  fall, 
"While  evermore,  behind,  before, 

Closed  in  the  forest  wall. 

The  dim  wood  hiding  underneath 
Wan  flowers  without  a  name  ; 

Life  tangled  with  decay  and  death, 
League  after  league  the  same. 

Unbroken  over  swamp  and  hill 

The  rounding  shadow  lay, 
Save  where  the  river  cut  at  will 

A  pathway  to  the  day. 

Beside  that  track  of  air  and  light, 

Weak  as  a  child  unwearied, 
At  shut  of  day  a  Christian  knight 

Upon  his  henchman  leaned. 

The  embers  of  the  sunset's  fires 

Along  the  clouds  burned  down  ; 
:  I  see,"  he  said,  "  the  domes  and  spires 
Of  Norembega  town." 

"  Alack  !  the  domes,  0  master  mine, 
Are  golden  clouds  on  high  ; 


Yon  spire  is  but  the  Vranchless  pine 
That  cuts  the  evening  sky." 

"  O  hush  and  hark  !    What  sounds  are 

these 

But  chants  and  h^)ly  hymns  ?  " 
' '  Thou  hear'st  the  breeze  that  stirs  the 

trees 
Through  all  tieir  leafy  limbs." 

"  Is  it  a  chapel  bell  that  fills 

The  air  with  its  low  tone  ?  " 
"  Thou  hear'st  the  tinkle  of  the  rills, 

The  insect's  vesper  drone." 

"  The  Christ  be  praised ! — He  sets  for  me 

A  blessed  cross  in  sight !  " 
' '  Now,  nay,  't  is  but  yon  blasted  tree 

With  two  gaunt  arms  outright  !  " 

"  Be  it  wind  so  sad  or  tree  so  stark, 
It  mattereth  not,  my  knave  ; 

Methinks  to  funeral  hymns  I  hark, 
The  cross  is  for  my  grave  ! 

"  My  life  is  sped  ;  I  shall  not  see 

My  home-set  sails  again  ; 
The  sweetest  eyes  of  Normandie 

Shall  watch  for  me  in  vain. 

"  Yet  onward  still  to  ear  and  eye 

The  baffling  marvel  calls  ; 
I  fain  would  look  before  I  die 

On  Norembega's  walls. 

"  So,  haply,  it  shall  be  thy  part 

At  Christian  feet  to  lay 
The  mystery  of  the  desert's  heart 

My  dead  hand  plucked  away. 

"  Leave  me  an  hour  of  rest ;  go  thoii 
And  look  from  yonder  heights  ; 

Perchance  the  valley  even  now 
Is  starred  with  city  lights." 

The  henchman  climbed  the  nearest  hill, 
He  saw  nor  tower  nor  town, 


348 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


But,  through  the  drear  woods,  lone  and 

still, 
The  river  rolling  down. 

He  heard  the  stealthy  feet  of  things 
Whose  shapes  he  could  not  see, 

A  nutter  as  of  evil  wings, 
The  fall  of  a  dead  tree. 

The  pines  stood  black  against  the  moon, 

A  sword  of  fire  beyond  ; 
He  heard  the  wolf  howl,  and  the  loon 

Laugh  from  his  reedy  pond. 

He  turned  him  back  :  "  0  master  dear, 

We  are  but  men  misled  ; 
And  thou  hast  sought  a  city  here 

To  find  a  grave  instead. 

"  As  God  shall  will !  what  matters  where 
A  true  man's  cross  may  stand, 

So  Heaven  be  o'er  it  here  as  there 
In  pleasant  Norman  land  ? 

"  These    woods,    perchance,    no    secret 
hide 

Of  lordly  tower  and  hall  ; 
Yon  river  in  its  wanderings  wide 

Has  washed  no  city  wall ; 

"  Yet  mirrored  in  the  sullen  stream 

The  holy  stars  are  given  : 
Is  Norembega,  then,  a  dream 

Whose  waking  is  in  Heaven  ? 

"  No  builded  wonder  of  these  lands 

My  weary  eyes  shall  see  ; 
A  city  never  made  with  hands 

Alone  awaiteth  rne  — 

"  '  Urbs  Syon  mystica '  ;  I  see 

Its  mansions  passing  fair, 
'  Condita  ccelo  '  ;  let  me  be, 

Dear  Lord,  a  dweller  there  !  " 

Above  the  dying  exile  hung 

The  vision  of  the  bard, 
As  faltered  on  his  failing  tongue 

The  song  of  good  Bernard. 

The  henchman  dug  at  dawn  a  grave 
Beneath  the  hemlocks  brown, 

And  to  the  desert's  keeping  gave 
The  lord  of  fief  and  town. 

Years  after,  when  the  Sieur  Champlaiu 
Sailed  up  the  unknown  stream, 


And  Norembega  proved  again 
A  shadow  and  a  dream, 

He  found  the  Norman's  nameless  grave 
Within  the  hemlock's  shade, 

And,  stretching  wide  its  arms  to  save, 
The  sign  that  God  had  made, 

The  cross-boughed  tree  that  marked  the 
spot 

And  made  it  holy  ground  : 
He  needs  the  earthly  city  not 

Who  hath  the  heavenly  found. 


NAUHAUGHT,    THE   DEACON. 

NAUHAUGHT,  the   Indian  deacon,  who 

of  old 
Dwelt,   poor  but  blameless,   where   his 

narrowing  Cape 
Stretches  its  shrunk  arm  out  to  all  the 

winds 

And  the  relentless  smiting  of  the  waves, 
Awoke    one   morning   from   a   pleasant 

dream 

Of  a  good  angel  dropping  in  his  hand 
A  fair,  broad  gold -piece,  in  the  name  of 

God. 

He  rose  and  went  forth  with  the  early 

day 
Far   inland,    where    the   voices   of    the 

waves 
Mellowed   and  mingled  with  the  whis' 

pering  leaves, 
As,  through  the  tangle  of  the  low,  thick 

\voods, 
He   searched    his  traps.     Therein    nor 

beast  nor  bird 
He  found  ;    though   meanwhile   in  the 

reedy  pools 
The  otter  plashed,  and  underneath  the 

pines 
The   partridge   drummed :    and    as   hii 

thoughts  went  back 
To   the    sick  wife    and    little  child  a) 

home, 
What  marvel  that  the  poor  man  felt  hi,* 

faith 
Too  weak  to  bear  its  burden,  —  like  a 

rope 
That,  strand  by  strand  uncoiling,  break.* 

above 
The  hand  that  grasps  it.     "  Even  now, 

0  Lord  ! 


NAUHAUGHT,   THE   DEACON. 


349 


Send  me,"  he  prayed,  "  the  angel  of  my 

dream ! 
Nauhaught    is  very  poor;    he    cannot 

wait." 

Even  as  he  spake  he  heard  at  his  bare 
feet 

A  low,  metallic  clink,  and,  looking 
down, 

He  saw  a  dainty  purse  with  disks  of 
gold 

Crowding  its  silken  net.  Awhile  he 
held 

The  treasure  up  before  his  eyes,  alone 

With  his  great  need,  feeling  the  won 
drous  coins 

Slide  through  his  eager  fingers,  one  by 
one. 

So  then  the  dream  was  true.  The  angel 
brought 

One  broad  piece  only;  should  he  take 
all  these? 

Who  would  be  wiser,  in  the  blind,  dumb 
woods  ? 

The  loser,  doubtless  rich,  would  scarcely 
miss 

This  dropped  crumb  from  a  table  always 
full. 

Still,  while  he  mused,  he  seemed  to  hear 
the  cry 

Of  a  starved  child ;  the  sick  face  of  his 
wife 

Tempted  him.  Heart  and  flesh  in  fierce 
revolt 

Urged  the  wild  license  of  his  savage 
youth 

Against  his  later  scruples.     Bitter  toil, 

Prayer,  fasting,  dread  of  blame,  and  pit 
iless  eyes 

To  watch  his  halting,  —  had  he  lost  for 
these 

The  freedom  of  the  woods  ;  —  the  hunt 
ing-grounds 

Of  happy  spirits  for  a  walled-in  heaven 

Of  everlasting  psalms  ?  One  healed  the 
sick 

Very  far  off  thousands  of  moons  ago : 

Had  he  not  prayed  him  night  and  day  to 
come 

And  cure  his  bed-bound  wife?  Was 
there  a  hell  ? 

Were  all  his  fathers'  people  writhing 
there  — 

Like  the  poor  shell-fish  set  to  boil  alive — 

Forever,  dying  never?     If  he  kept 

This  gold,  so  needed,  would  the  dread 
ful  God 


Torment  him  like  a  Mohawk's  captive 

stuck 
With  slow-consuming  splinters  ?   Would 

the  saints 
And  the  white  angels  dance  and  laugh 

to  see  him 
Burn    like   a    pitch-pine    torch  ?      His 

Christian  garb 
Seemed  falling  from  him ;  with  the  fear 

and  shame 

Of  Adam  naked  at  the  cool  of  day, 
He  gazed  around.     A  black  snake  lay  in 

coil 
On  the  hot  sand,  a  crow  with  sidelong 

eye 
AVatched  from  a  dead  bough.     All  his 

Indian  lore 

Of  evil  blending  with  a  convert's  faith 
In  the  supernal  terrors  of  the  Book, 
He   saw    the   Tempter    in  the    coiling 

snake 
And  ominous,   black-winged  bird  ;  and 

all  the  while 

The  low  rebuking  of  the  distant  waves 
Stole   in   upon   him  like   the  voice  of 

God 
Among   the   trees   of    Eden.      Girding 

up 
His  soul's  loins  with  a  resolute  hand,  he 

thrust 

The   base    thought  from   him  :    "  Nau 
haught,  be  a  man  ! 
Starve,  if  need  be  ;  but,  while  you  live, 

look  out 

From    honest    eyes    on    all    men,    un 
ashamed. 
God   help   me  !      I    am   deacon   of  the 

church, 
A  baptized,  praying  Indian  !     Should  I 

do 
This  secret  meanness,  even  the  barken 

knots 
Of  the  old  trees  would  turn  to  eyes  to 

see  it, 
The  birds  would  tell  of  it,  and  all  the 

leaves 
Whisper  above   me  :  '  Nauhaught   is  a 

thief !  ' 
The  sun  would  know  it,  and  the  stars 

that  hide 
Behind  his  light  would  watch  me,  and 

at  night 
Follow   me   with  their   sharp,  accusing 

eyes. 
Yea,    thou,    God,    seest    me  ! "      Then 

Nauhaught  drew 
Closer  his  belt  of  leather,  dulling  thus 


350 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


The  pain  of  hunger,  and  walked  bravely 

hack 
To   the    brown   fishing- hamlet    by   the 

sea ; 
And,  pausing  at  the  inn- door,  cheerily 

asked  : 
"  Who  hath  lost  aught  to-day  ?" 

"  1,"  said  a  voice  ; 

"Ten  golden  pieces,  in  a  silken  purse, 
My  daughter's  handiwork. "     He  looked, 

and  lo  ! 

One  stood  before  him  in  a  coat  of  frieze, 
And  the  glazed  hat  of  a  seafaring  man, 
JBhrewd-faced,     broad-shouldered,    with 

no  trace  of  wings. 
Marvelling,    he    dropped     within     the 

stranger's  hand 
The  silken  web,  and  turned  to  go  his 

way. 
But  the  man  said  :   "A  tithe  at  least  is 

yours  ; 
Take  it  in   God's  name  as  an   honest 

man." 

And  as  the  deacon's  dusky  fingers  closed 
Over   the  golden  gift,    "Yea,  in  God's 

name 
I  take  it,  with  a  poor  man's  thanks," 

he  said. 

So  down  the  street  that,  like  a  river  of 
sand, 

Ran,  white  in  sunshine,  to  the  summer 
sea, 

He  sought  his  home,  singing  and  prais 
ing  God  ; 

And  when  his  neighbors  in  their  careless 
way 

Spoke  of  the  owner  of  the  silken  purse  — 

A  Wellfleet  skipper,  known  in  every 
port 

That  the  Cape  opens  in  its  sandy  wall  — 

He  answered,  with  a  wise  smile,  to  him 
self: 

"  I  saw  the  angel  where  they  see  a  man." 


SCHOOL-DAYS. 


STILL  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, 

A  ragged  beggar  sunning; 
Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow, 

And  blackberry-  vines  are  running. 

Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen, 
Deep  scarred  by  raps  official  ; 

The  warping  floor,  the  battered  seats, 
The  jack-knife's  carved  initial  j 


The  charcoal  frescos  on  its  wall ; 

Its  door's  worn  sill,  betraying 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 

"Went  storming  out  to  playing ! 

Long  years  ago  a  winter  sun 

Shone  over  it  at  setting ; 
Lit  up  its  western  window-panes, 

And  low  eaves'  icy  fretting. 

It  touched  the  tangled  golden  curls, 
And  brown  eyes  full  of  grieving, 

Of  one  who  still  her  steps  delayed 
When  all  the  school  were  leaving. 

For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 

Her  childish  favor  singled  : 
His  cap  pulled  low  upon  a  face 

Where  pride  and  shame  were  mingled 

Pushing  with  restless  feet  the  snow 
To  right  and  left,  he  lingered  ;  — 

As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 

The  blue-checked  apron  fingered. 

He  saw  her  lift  her  eyes  ;  he  felt 
The  soft  hand's  light  caressing, 

And  heard  the  tremble  of  her  voice, 
As  if  a  fault  confessing. 

"  I  'm  sorry  that  I  spelt  the  word : 

I  hate  to  go  above  you, 
Because,"    —  the     brown     eyes     lowe? 
fell,  - 

"  Because,  you  see,  I  love  you  !  " 

Still  memory  to  a  gray -haired  man 
That  sweet  child-face  is  showing. 

Dear  girl  !  the  grasses  on  her  grave 
Have  forty  years  been  growing ! 

He  lives  to  learn,  in  life's  hard  school, 
How  few  who  pass  above  him 

Lament  their  triumph  and  his  loss, 
Like  her,  —  because  they  love  him. 


GAEIBALDI. 

IN   trance   and    dream    of    old,     God's 

prophet  saw 
The  casting  down  of  thrones.     Thou, 

watching  lone 
The  hot   Sardinian   coast-line,  hazy- 

hilled, 


-  **OI 


V- 

"  On  woods  that  dream  of  bloom."     Page  351- 


\ 


T 

.-•  ,.>*• 


MY   TRIUMPH. 


351 


Where,  fringing  round  Caprera's  rocky 

zone 
With  foam,  the  slow  waves  gather  and 

withdraw, 

Behold'st  the  vision  of  the  seer  ful 
filled, 
And  hear'st  the  sea-winds  burdened 

with  a  sound 

Of  falling  chains,  as,  one  by  one,  un 
bound, 
The  nations   lift  their   right   hands  up 

and  swear 
Their    oath  of  freedom.      From  the 

chalk -white  wall 
Of  England,  from  the  black  Carpathian 

range, 
Along  the    Danube  and  the   Theiss, 

through  all 

The  passes  of  the  Spanish  Pyrenees, 
And  from  the   Seine's  thronged  banks, 

a  murmur  strange 

And  glad  floats  to  thee  o'er  thy  sum 
mer  seas 

On  the  salt  wind  that  stirs  thy  whiten 
ing  hair,  — 
The     song    of    freedom's     bloodless 

victories ! 
Rejoice,     O    Garibaldi!      Though    thy 

sword 
Failed    at     Rome's    gates,    and    blood 

seemed  vainly  poured 
"Where,  in  Christ's  name,  the  crowned 

infidel 
Of  France   wrought    murder    with  the 

arms  of  hell 
On   that  sad  mountain  slope   whose 

ghostly  dead, 

Unmindful  of  the  gray  exorcist's  ban, 
Walk,  unappeased,  the  chambered.  Vat 
ican, 
And  draw  the  curtains  of  Napoleon's 

bed! 
God 's  providence  is  not  blind,  but,  full 

of  eyes, 

It  searches  all  the  refuges  of  lies  •, 
And  in  His  time  and  way,  the  accursed 

things 

Before  whose    evil  feet    thy  battle- 
gage 
Hai   clashed  defiance  from  hot  youth 

to  age 
rihall  perish.     All  men  shall  be  priests 

and  kings,  — 
One  royal   brotherhood,    one   church 

made  free 
By  love,  which  is  the  law  of  liberty  1 


AFTER  ELECTION. 

THE  day's  sharp  strife  is  ended  now, 
Our  work  is  done,  God  knoweth  how ! 
As  on  the  thronged,  unrestful  town 
The  patience  of  the  moon  looks  down, 
I  wait  to  hear,  beside  the  wire, 
The  voices  of  its  tongues  of  fire. 

Slow,  doubtful,  faint,  they  seem  at  first: 
Be  strong,  my  heart,  to  know  the  worst? 
Hark  !  —  there  the  Alleghanies  spoke  ; 
That  sound  from  lake  and  prairie  broke, 
That  sunset-gun  of  triumph  rent 
The  silence  of  a  continent ! 

That  signal  from  Nebraska  sprung, 
This,  from  Nevada's  mountain  tongue ! 
Is  that  thy  answer,  strong  and  free, 
0  loyal  heart  of  Tennessee  ? 
What  strange,  glad  voice  is  that  which 

calls 
From    Wagner's   grave    and    Sumter's 

walls  ? 

From  Mississippi's  fountain-head 
A  sound  as  of  the  bison's  tread  ! 
There  rustled  freedom's  Charter  Oak ! 
In  that  wild  burst  the  Ozarks  spoke  i 
Cheer  answers  cheer  from  rise  to  set 
Of  sun.     We  have  a  country  yet ! 

The  praise,  0  God,  be  thine  alone  ! 
Thou  givest  not  for  bread  a  stone ; 
Thou  hast  not  led  us  1  hrough  the  night 
To  blind  us  with  returning  light ; 
Not  through  the  furnace  have  we  passed, 
To  perish  at  its  mouth  at  last. 

0  night  of  peace,  thy  flight  restrain  ! 
November's  moon,  be  slow  to  wane  ! 
Shine  on  the  freed  man's  cabin  floor, 
On  brows  of  prayer  a  blessing  pour ; 
And  give,  with  full  assurance  blest, 
The  weary  heart  of  Freedom  rest ! 
1368. 


MY  TRIUMPH. 

THE  autumn-time  has  come ; 
On  woods  that  dream  of  bloom, 
And  over  purpling  vines, 
The  low  sun  fainter  shines. 

The  aster-flower  is  failing, 
The  hazel's  gold  is  paling ; 


352 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Yet  overhead  more  near 
The  eternal  stars  appear ! 

And  present  gratitude 
Insures  the  future's  good, 
And  for  the  things  I  see 
I  trust  the  things  to  be ; 

That  in  the  paths  untrod, 
And  the  long  days  of  God, 
My  feet  shall  still  be  led, 
My  heart  be  comforted. 

0  living  friends  who  love  me ! 

0  dear  ones  gone  above  me ! 
Careless  of  other  fame, 

1  leave  to  you  my  name. 

Hide  it  from  idle  praises, 

Save  it  from  evil  phrases  : 

Why,  when  dear  lips  that  spake  it 

Are  dumb,  should  strangers  wake  it? 

Let  the  thick  curtain  fall ; 
I  better  know  than  all 
How  little  I  have  gained, 
How  vast  the  unattained. 

Not  by  the  page  word-painted 
Let  life  be  banned  or  sainted  : 
Deeper  than  written  scroll 
The  colors  of  the  soul. 

Sweeter  than  any  sung 

My  songs  that  found  no  tongue ; 

Nobler  than  any  fact 

My  wish  that  failed  of  act. 

Others  shall  sing  the  song, 
Others  shall  right  the  wrong,  — 
Finish  what  I  begin, 
And  all  1  fail  of  win. 

What  matter,  I  or  they? 
Mine  or  another's  day, 
So  the  right  word  be  said 
And  life  the  sweeter  made  ? 

Hail  to  the  coming  singers ! 
Hail  to  the  brave  light-bringers  ! 
Forward  I  reach  and  share 
All  that  they  sing  and  dare. 

The  airs  of  heaven  blow  o'er  me ; 
A  glory  shines  before  me 
Of  what  mankind  shall  be,  — 
Pure,  generous,  brave,  and  free. 


A  dream  of  man  and  woman 
Diviner  but  still  human, 
Solving  the  riddle  old, 
Shaping  the  Age  of  Gold ! 

The  love  of  God  and  neighbor ; 
An  equal-handed  labor ; 
The  richer  life,  where  beauty 
Walks  hand  in  hand  with  duty. 

Ring,  bells  in  unreared  steeples, 
The  joy  of  unborn  peoples  ! 
Sound,  trumpets  far  off  blown, 
Your  triumph  is  my  own  1 

Parcel  and  part  of  all, 
I  keep  the  festival, 
Fore-reach  the  good  to  be, 
And  share  the  victory. 

I  feel  the  earth  move  sunward, 
I  join  the  great  march  onward, 
And  take,  by  faith,  while  living, 
My  freehold  of  thanksgiving. 


THE  HIVE  AT  GETTYSBURG. 

IN  the    old    Hebrew    myth  the    lion's 

frame, 

So  terrible  alive, 
Bleached  by  the  desert's  sun  and  wind, 

became 

The  wandering  Avild  bees'  hive ; 
And  he  who,   lone  and  naked-handed, 

tore 

Those  jaws  of  death  apart, 
In  after  time  drew  forth  their  honeyed 

store 
To  strengthen  his  strong  heart. 

Dead  seemed  the  legend  :   but  it  only 

slept 

To  wake  beneath  our  sky  ; 
Just  on  the  spot  whence  ravening  Trea 
son  crept 

Back  to  its  lair  to  die, 
Bleeding    and     torn    from     Freedom's 

mountain  bounds, 
A  stained  and  shattered  drum 
Is  now  the  hive  where,  on  their  flowerjl 

rounds, 
The  wild  bees  go  and  come. 

Unchallenged  by  a  ghostly  sentinel, 
They  wander  wide  and  far, 


TO    LYDIA   MARIA   CHILD. 


353 


Along  green  hillsides,   sown  with  shot 

and  shell, 

Through  vales  once  choked  with  war. 
The  low  reveille  of  their  battle-drum 

Disturbs  no  morning  prayer ; 
With   deeper   peace   in   summer  noons 

their  hum 
Fills  all  the  drowsy  air. 

And    Samson's   riddle  is   our  own   to 
day, 

Of  sweetness  from  the  strong, 
Of  union,  peace,   and  freedom    plucked 

away 

From  the  rent  jaws  of  wrong. 
From  Treason's  death  we  draw  a  purer 

life, 

As,  from  the  beast  he  slew, 
A  sweetness  sweeter  for  his  bitter  strife 
The  old-time  athlete  drew  ! 


HOWARD   AT  ATLANTA. 

RIGHT  in  the  track  where  Sherman 

Ploughed  his  red  furrow, 
Out  of  the  narrow  cabin, 

Up  from  the  cellar's  burrow, 
Gathered  the  little  black  people, 

With  freedom  newly  dowered, 
Where,  beside  their  Northern  teacher, 

Stood  the  soldier,  Howard. 

He  listened  and  heard  the  children 

Of  the  poor  and  long-enslaved 
Reading  the  words  of  Jesus, 

Singing  the  songs  of  David. 
Behold  !  —  the  dumb  lips  speaking, 

The  blind  eyes  seeing  ! 
Bones  of  the  Prophet's  vision 

Warmed  into  being ! 

Transformed  he  saw  them  passing 

Their  new  life's  portal ! 
Almost  it  seemed  the  mortal 

Put  on  the  immortal. 
No  more  with  the  beasts  of  burden, 

No  more  with  stone  and  clod, 
But  crowned  with  glory  and  honor 

In  the  image  of  God  ! 

There  was  the  human  chattel 

Its  manhood  taking ; 
There,  in  each  dark,  brown  statue, 

A  soul  was  waking  ! 
The  man  of  many  battles, 

With  tears  his  eyelids  pressing, 


Stretched  over  those  dusky  foreheads 
His  one-armed  blessing. 

And  he  said  :  "Who  hears  can  never 

Fear  for  or  doubt  you ; 
What  shall  I  tell  the  children 

Up  North  about  you  ? " 
Then  ran  round  a  whisper,  a  murmuiv 

Some  answer  devising ; 
And  a  little  boy  stood  up :   "  Massa, 

Tell  'em  we  're  rising !  " 

0  black  boy  of  Atlanta ! 

But  half  was  spoken  : 
The  slave's  chain  and  the  master's 

Alike  are  broken. 
The  one  curse  of  the  races 

Held  both  in  tether : 
They  are  rising,  —  all  are  rising, 

The  black  and  white  together ! 

0  brave  men  and  fair  women  ! 

Ill  comes  of  hate  and  scorning  ; 
Shall  the  dark  faces  only 

Be  turned  to  morning  ?  — 
Make  Time  your  sole  avenger, 

All-healing,  all-redressing ; 
Meet  Fate  half-way,  and  make  it 

A  joy  and  blessing ! 


TO  LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD, 

ON     READING      HER     POEM     IN      "  THlS 
STANDARD." 

THE  sweet  spring  day  is  glad  with  music, 
But  through  it  sounds  a  sadder  strain  ; 

The  worthiest  of  our  narrowing  circle 
Sings  Loring's  dirges  o'er  again. 

0  woman  greatly  loved  !  I  join  thee 
In  tender  memories  of  our  friend ; 

With  thee  across  the  awful  spaces 
The  greeting  of  a  soul  I  send ! 

What  cheer  hath  he  ?     How  is  it  with 
him  ? 

Where  lingers  he  this  weary  while  ? 
Over  what  pleasant  fields  of  Heaven 

Dawns  the  sweet  sunrise  of  his  smile  ? 

Does  he  not  know  our  feet  are  treading 
The   earth  hard   down  on   Slavery's 
grave  ? 

That,  in  our  crowning  exultations, 
We  miss  the  charm  his  presence  gave  ? 


354 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Why  on  this  spring  air  comes  no  whis 
per 

From  him  to  tell  us  all  is  well  ? 
Why  to  our  flower-time  comes  no  token 

Of  lily  and  of  asphodel  ? 

I  feel  the  unutterable  longing, 
Thy  hunger  of  the  heart  is  mine  ; 

I  reach  and  grope  for  hands  in  darkness, 
My  ear  grows  sharp  for  voice  or  sign. 

Still  on  the  lips  of  all  we  question 
The  linger  of  God's  silence  lies ; 

Will  the  lost  hands  in  ours  be  folded  ? 
Will  the  shut  eyelids  ever  rise  ? 

0  friend  !  no  proof  beyond  this  yearning, 
This  outreach  of  our  hearts,  we  need  ; 

God  will  not  mock  the  hope  He  giveth, 
No  love    He    prompts    shall    vainly 
plead. 

Then  let  us  stretch  our  hands  in  dark 
ness, 

And  call  our  loved  ones  o'er  and  o'er ; 
(Some  day  their  arms  shall   close  about 

us, 
And  the  old  voices  speak  once  more.   ( 

No  dreary  splendors  wait  our  coming 
Where   rapt   ghost    sits   from    ghost 

apart ; 

Homeward  we  go  to   Heaven's  thanks 
giving, 
The  harvest-gathering  of  the  heart. 


THE  PRAYER-SEEKER. 

AEONG  the  aisle  where  prayer  was  made 
A  woman,  all  in  black  arrayed, 
Close-veiled,  between  the  kneeling  host, 
With  gliding  motion  of  a  ghost, 
Passed  to  the  desk,  and  laid  thereon 
A  scroll  which  bore  these  words  alone, 
Pray  for  me  ! 

Back  from  the  place  of  worshipping 
She  glided  like  a  guilty  thing : 
The  rustle  of  her  draperies,  stirred 
By  hurrying  feet,  alone  was  heard  ; 
While,  full  of  awe,  the  preacher  read, 
As  out  into  the  dark  she  sped  : 

"Pray  for  me/" 


Back  to    the   night   from   whence   she 

came, 

To  unimagined  grief  or  shame  ! 
Across  the  threshold  of  that  door 
None  knew  the  burden  that  she  bore  ; 
Alone  she  left  the  written  scroll, 
The  legend  of  a  troubled  soul,  — 
Pray  for  me  f 

Glide  on,  poor  ghost  of  woe  or  sin  ! 
Thou  leav'st  a  common  need  within  ; 
Each  bears,    like  thee,    some   nameless 

weight, 

Some  misery  inarticulate, 
Some  secret  sin,  some  shrouded  dread, 
Some  household  sorrow  all  unsaid. 
Pray  for  us  I 

Pass  on  !     The  type  of  all  thou  art, 
Sad  witness  to  the  common  heart ! 
With  face  in  veil  and  seal  on  lip, 
In  mute  and  strange  companionship, 
Like  thee  we  wander  to  and  fro, 
Dumbly  imploring  as  we  go  : 
Pray  for  us  ! 

Ah,    who    shall    pray,    since    he    who 

pleads 

Our  want  perchance  hath  greater  needs  ? 
Yet  they  who  make  their  loss  the  gain 
Of  others  shall  not  ask  in  vain, 
And   Heaven    bends    low  to  hear  the 

prayer 

Of  love  from  lips  of  self-despair  : 
Pray  for  us  I 

In  vain  remorse  and  fear  and  hate 
Beat  with  bruised  hands  against  a  fate 
Whose  walls  of  iron  only  move 
And  open  to  the  touch  of  love. 
He  only  feels  his  burdens  fall 
Who,  taught  by  suffering,  pities  all. 
Pray  for  us  I 

He  prayeth  best  who  leaves  unguessed 

The  mystery  of  another's  breast. 

Why  cheeks  grow  pale,    why  eyes  o'er- 

flow, 
Or  heads   are  white,    thou  need'st  not 

know. 

Enough  to  note  by  many  a  sign 
That  every  heart  hath  needs  like  thine. 
Pray  for  us/ 


A   SPIKITUAL  MANIFESTATION. 


355 


POEMS  FOR  PUBLIC  OCCASIONS. 


A    SPIRITUAL    MANIFESTATION. 

AT  THE    PRESIDENT'S    LEVEE,    BROWN 

UNIVERSITY,  29TH  6TH  MONTH,   1870. 

TO-DAY  the  plant  by  Williams  set 
Its  summer  bloom  discloses  ; 

The  wilding  sweetbrier  of  his  prayers 
Is  crowned  with  cultured  roses. 

Once  more  the  Island  State  repeats 
The  lesson  that  he  taught  her, 

And  binds  his  pearl  of  charity 
Upon  her  brown-locked  daughter. 

Is  't  fancy  that  he  watches  still 
His  Providence  plantations  ? 

That  still  the  careful  Founder  takes 
A  part  on  these  occasions  ? 

Methinks  I  see  that  reverend  fV>rm, 
Which  all  of  us  so  well  know  : 

He  rises  up  to  speak  ;  he  jogs 
The  presidential  elbow 

"Good  friends,"  he  says,   "V<HI  reap  a 
field 

I  sowed  in  self-denial, 
For  toleration  had  its  griefs 

And  charity  its  trial. 

"  Great    grace,    as    saith    Sir    Thomas 
More, 

To  him  must  needs  be  given 
Who  heareth  heresy  and  leaves 

The  heretic  to  Heaven  ! 

"I  hear  again  the  snuffied  tones, 

I  see  in  dreary  vision 
Dyspeptic  dreamers,  spiritua1  bores, 

And  prophets  with  a  mission. 

"  Each  zealot  thrust  before  my  eyes 
His  Scripture-garbled  label  ; 

All  creeds  were  shouted  in  my  ears 
As  with  the  tongues  of  Babel. 

"  Scourged   at   one    cart-tail,    each   de 
nied 

The  hope  of  every  other  ; 
Each  martyr  shook  his  branded  fist 

At  the  conscience  of  his  brother  ! 


"  How  cleft  the  dreary  drone  of  man 

The  shriller  pipe  of  woman, 
As  Gorton  led  his  saints  elect, 

Who  held  all  things  in  common  ! 

"  Their  gay  robes  trailed  in  ditch  an6 
swamp, 

And  torn  by  thorn  and  thicket, 
The  dancing-girls  of  Merry  Mount 

Came  dragging  to  my  wicket. 

' '  Shrill  Anabaptists,  shorn  of  ears  ; 

Gray  witch- wives,  hobbling  slowly  ; 
And  Antinomians,  free  of  law, 

Whose  very  sins  were  holy. 

' '  Hoarse   ranters,    crazed    Fifth    Mon 
archists, 

Of  stripes  and  bondage  braggarts, 
Pale   Churchmen,    with  singed   rubrics 

snatched 
From  Puritanic  fagots. 

"  And  last,  riot  least,  the  Quakers  came, 
With  tongues  still  sore  from  burning, 

The   Bay   State's   dust  from   off   their 

feet 
Before  my  threshold  spurning  ; 

' '  A  motley  host,  the  Lord's  debris, 
Faith's  odds  and  ends  together ; 

Well  might  I  shrink  from  guests  with 

lungs 
Tough  as  their  breeches  leather : 

"  If,  when  the  hangman  at  their  heelfl 
Came,  rope  in  hand  to  catch  them, 

I  took  the  hunted  outcasts  in, 
I  never  sent  to  fetch  them. 

"  I  fed,  but  spared  them  not  a  whit; 

I  gave  to  all  who  walked  in, 
Not  clams  and  succotash  alone, 

But  stronger  meat  of  doctrine. 

"  I  proved  the  prophets  false,  I  pricked 

The  bubble  of  perfection, 
And  clapped  upon  their  inner  light 

The  snuffers  of  election. 

'  ';  And    looking  backward  on  my  times, 
|     This  credit  I  am  taking ; 


356 


POEMS   FOIt   PUBLIC    OCCASIONS. 


I  kept  each,  sectary's  dish  apart, 
No  spiritual  chowder  making. 

"Where  now  the  blending  signs  01  sect 

Would  puzzle  their  assorter, 
The  dry-shod  Quaker  kept  the  land, 

The  Baptist  held  the  water. 

"'*  A  common  coat  now  serves  for  both, 
The  hat 's  no  more  a  fixture  ; 

&nd    which   was    wet    and   which   was 

dry, 
Who  knows  in  such  a  mixture  ? 

"Well  !     He     who     fashioned    Peter's 
dream 

To  bless  them  all  is  able  ; 
ixiid  bird  and  beast  and  creeping  thing 

Make  clean  upon  His  table  ! 

• '  T  walked  by  my  own  light ;  but  when 

The  ways  of  faith  divided, 
Was  I  to  force  unwilling  feet 

To  tread  the  path  that  I  did  ? 

"  I  touched  the  garment-hem  of  truth, 
Yet  saw  not  all  its  splendor  ; 

I  knew  enough  of  doubt  to  feel 
For  every  conscience  tender. 

"  God  left  men  free  of  choice,  as  when 
His  Eden-trees  wrere  planted  ; 

Because  they  chose  amiss,  should  I 
Deny  the  gift  He  granted  ? 

"  So,  with  a  common  sense  of  need, 
Our  common  weakness  feeling, 

I  left  them  with  myself  to  God 
And  His  all-gracious  dealing  ! 

"  I  kept  His  plan  whose  rain  and  sun 
To  tare  and  wheat  are  given  ; 

And  if  the  ways  to  hell  were  free, 
]  left  them  free  to  heaven  ! " 

Take  heart  with  us,  0  man  of  old, 
Soul-freedom's  brave  confessor, 

Bo  love  of  God  and  man  wax  strong, 
Let  sect  and  creed  be  lesser. 

The  jarring  discords  of  thy  day 
In  ours  one  hymn  are  swelling  ; 

The  wandering  feet,  the  severed  paths, 
All  seek  our  Father's  dwelling. 

A.nd  slowly  learns  the  world  the  truth 
That  makes  us  all  thy  debtor,  — 


That  holy  life  is  more  than  rite, 
And  spirit  more  than  letter  ; 

That  they  who  differ  pole-wide  serve 
Perchance  the  common  Master, 

And  other  sheep  He  hath  than  they 
Who  graze  one  narrow  pasture  ! 

For  truth's  worst  foe  is  he  who  claims 

To  act  as  God's  avenger, 
And  deems,  beyond  his  sentry-beat, 

The  crystal  walls  in  danger  ! 

Who  sets  for  heresy  his  traps 
Of  verbal  quirk  and  quibble, 

And  weeds  the  garden  of  the  Lord 
With  Satan's  borrowed  dibble. 

To-day  our  hearts  like  organ  keys 
One  Master's  touch  are  feeling  ; 

The  branches  of  a  common  Vine 
Have  only  leaves  of  healing. 

Co-workers,  yet  from  varied  fields, 
We  share  this  restful  nooning  ; 

The  Quaker  with  the  Baptist  here 
Believes  in  close  communing. 

Forgive,  dear  saint,  the  playful  tone, 
Too  light  for  thy  deserving  ; 

Thanks  for  thy  generous  faith  in  man, 
Thy  trust  in  God  unswerving. 

Still  echo  in  the  hearts  of  men 
The  words  that  thou  hast  spoken  ; 

No  forge  of  hell  can  weld  again 
The  fetters  thou  hast  broken. 

The  pilgrim  needs  a  pass  no  more 

From  Roman  or  Genevan  ; 
Thought-free,  no  ghostly  tollman  keeps 

Henceforth  the  road  to  Heaven  ! 


"THE  LAURELS/' 

AT    THE    TWENTIETH    AND   LAST    ANNI' 
VERSARY. 

FROM  these  wild  rocks  I  look  to-day 
O'er  leagues  of  dancing  waves,  and 
see 

The  far,  low  coast-line  stretch  away 
To  where  our  river  meets  the  sea. 

The  light  wind  blowing  off  the  land 
Is  burdened  with  old  voices  ,  through 


HYMN. 


357 


Shut  eyes  I  see  how  lip  and  hand 
The  greeting  of  old  days  renew. 

0  friends  whose  hearts  still  keep  their 

prime, 
Whose    bright    example    warms   and 

cheers, 

Ye  teach  us  how  to  smile  at  Time, 
And  set  to  music  all  his  years  ! 

1  thank  you  for  sweet  summer  days, 

For  pleasant  memories  lingering  long, 
For  joyful  meetings,  fond  delays, 
And  ties  of  friendship  woven  strong. 

As  for  the  last  time,  side  by  side, 
You  tread  the  paths  familiar  grown, 

I  reach  across  the  severing  tide, 

And   blend  my   farewells   with   your 
own. 

Make  room,  0  river  of  our  home  ! 

For  other  feet  in  place  of  ours, 
And  in  the  summers  yet  to  come, 

Make  glad  another  Feast  of  Flowers  ! 

Hold  in  thy  mirror,  calm  and  deep, 
The  pleasant  pictures  thou  hast  seen  ; 

Forget  thy  lovers  not,  but  keep 
Our  memory  like  thy  laurels  green. 

ISLES  OP  SHOALS,  1th  mo.,  1870. 


HYMN 

FOR    THE    CELEBRATION   OF    EMANCIPA 
TION   AT   NEWBURYPORT. 

NOT  unto  us  who  did  but  seek 

The  word  that  burned  within  to  speak, 

Not  unto  us  this  day  belong 

The  triumph  and  exultant  song. 

Upon  us  fell  in  early  youth 
The  burden  of  unwelcome  truth, 
And  left  us,  weak  and  frail  and  few, 
The  censor's  painful  work  to  do. 

Thenceforth  our  life  a  fight  became, 
The    air    we    breathed  was    hot    with 
blame ; 


For  not  with  gauged  and  softened  tone 
We   made    the    bondman's    cause    our 


We  bore,  as  Freedom's  hope  forlorn, 
The  private  hate,  the  public  scorn  ; 
Yet  held  through  all  the  paths  we  trod 
Our  faith  in  man  and  trust  in  God. 

We  prayed  and  hoped ;  but  still,  with 

awe, 

The  coming  of  the  sword  we  saw  ; 
We  heard  the  nearing  steps  of  doom, 
We  saw  the  shade  of  things  to  come 

In  grief  which  they  alone  can  feel 
Who  from  a  mother's  wrong  appeal, 
With  blended  lines  of  fear  and  hope 
We  cast  our  country's  horoscope. 

For  still  within  her  house  of  life 
We  marked  the  lurid  sign  of  strife, 
And,  poisoning  and  imbittering  all, 
We  saw  the  star  of  Wormwood  fall. 

Deep  as  our  love  for  her  became 
Our  hate  of  all  that  wrought  her  shame, 
And  if,  thereby,  with  tongue  and  pen 
We  erred,  —  we  were  but  mortal  men. 

We  hoped  for  peace  ;  our  eyes  survey 
The  blood-red  dawn  of  Freedom's  day  •. 
We  prayed  for  love  to  loose  the  chain  ; 
'T  is  shorn  by  battle's  axe  in  twain  ! 

Nor  skill  nor  strength  nor  zeal  of  ours 
Has  mined    and    heaved    the    hostile 

towers  ; 

Not  by  our  hands  is  turned  the  key 
That  sets  the  sighing  captives  free. 

A  redder  sea  than  Egypt's  wave 
Is  piled  and  parted  for  the  slave  ; 
A  darker  cloud  moves  on  in  light ; 
A  fiercer  fire  is  guide  by  night  ! 

The  praise,  0  Lord  !  is  Thine  alone, 
Tn  Thy  own  way  Thy  work  is  done  ! 
Our  poor  gifts  at  Thy  feet  we  cast, 
To  whom  be  glory,  first  and  last ! 
1865. 


358 


THE   PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM. 


THE    PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM, 

AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


FRANCIS  DANIEL   PASTOKIUS. 

THE  beginning  of  German  emigration  to  Amer 
ica  may  be  traced  to  the  personal  influence  of 
William  Penn,  who  in  1677  visited  the  Continent, 
and  made  the  acquaintance  of  an  intelligent  and 
highly  cultivated  circle  of  Pietists,  or  Mystics, 
who,  reviving  in  the  seventeenth  century  the 
spiritual  faith  and  worship  of  Tauler  and  the 
"  Friends  of  God"  in  the  fourteenth,  gathered 
about  the  pastor  Spener,  and  the  young  and 
beautiful  Eleonora  Johanna  Von  Merlau.  In 
this  circle  originated  the  Frankfort  Land  Com 
pany,  which  bought  of  William  Penn,  the  Gov 
ernor  of  Pennsylvania,  a  tract  of  land  near  the 
new  city  of  Philadelphia. 
The  company 's  agent  in  the  New  World  was  a  ris 


linen- weavers,  as  well  as  small  farmers.  The 
Quakers  were  the  principal  sect,  but  men  of  all 
religions  were  tolerated,  and  lived  together  in 
harmony.  In  1692  Richard  Frame  published,  in 
what  he  called  verse,  a  "  Description  of  Pennsyl 
vania,"  in  which  he  alludes  to  the  settlement  ••  — 

"  The  German  town  of  which  I  spoke  before, 
Which  is  at  least  in  length  one  mile  or  more, 
"Where  lives  High  German  people  and  Low  Dutch, 
Whose  trade  in  weaving  linen  cloth  is  much,  — 
There  grows  the  flax,  as  also  you  may  know 
That  from  the  same  they  do  divide  the  tow. 
Their  trade  suits  well  their  habitation,  — 
We  find  convenience  for  their  occupation." 

Pastorius  seems  to  have  been  on  intimate 
terms  with  William  Penn,  Thomas  Lloyd,  Chief 
Justice  Logan,  Thomas  Story,  and  other  leading 


ing  young  lawyer,  Francis  Daniel  Pastorius,  son  of  men  in  the  Province  belonging  to  his  own  re- 
Judge  Pastorius,  of  Wmdsheim,  who,  at  the  age  of  !  ligious  society,  as  also  with  Kelpius  the  learned 
seventeen,  entered  the  University  of  Altorf.  He  |  Mystic  of  the  Wissahickon,  with  the  pastor  of 
studied  law  at  Strasburg,  Basle,  and  Jena,  and  at  the  Swedes'  church,  and  the  leaders  of  th 


Ratisbon,  the  seat  of  the  Imperial  Government, 
obtained  a  practical  knowledge  of  international 
polity.  Successful  in  all  his  examinations  and  dis 
putations,  he  received  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Law 
at  Nuremberg  in  1676.  In  1679  he  was  a  law-lectur 
er  at  Frankfort,  where  he  became  deeply  interested 
in  the  teachings  of  Dr.  Spener.  In  1680 -81  he 
travelled  in  France,  England,  Ireland,  and  Italy 
with  his  friend  Herr  Von  Rodeck.  "  I  was,"  he 
says,  "  glad  to  enjoy  again  the  company  of  my 
Christian  friends,  rather  than  b«^  with  Von 
Rodeck  feasting  and  dancing."  In  1683.  in  com 
pany  with  a  small  number  of  German  Friends,  he 
emigrated  to  America,  settling  upon  the  Frank 
fort  Company's  tract  between  the  Schuylkill  and 
the  Delaware  Rivers.  The  township  was  di 


, 

vided  into  four  hamlets,  namely,  Germautown,  I  care  of  bees.     The  following  specimen  of  hig 
Krisheim,  Crefield,  and   Sommerhausen.     Soon  |  punning  Latin  is   addressed  to 


Mennonitep.  He  wrote  a  description  of  Penn 
sylvania,  which  was  published  at  Frankfort  and 
Lcipsic  in  1700  and  1701.  His  "  Lives  of  the 
Saints,"  etc.,  written  in  German  and  dedicated 
to  Prof.  Schurmberg,  his  old  teacher,  was  pub 
lished  in  1690.  He  left  behind  him  many  un 
published  manuscripts  covering  a  very  wide  range 
of  subjects,  most  of  which  are  now  lost.  One 
huge  manuscript  folio,  entitled  "  Hive  Beestock, 
Melliotropheum  Alucar,  or  Rusca  Apium,"  still 
remains,  containing  one  thousand  pages  with 
about  one  hundred  lines  to  a  page.  Jt  is  a  med 
ley  of  knowledge  and  fancy,  history,  philosophy, 
and  poetry ,  written  in  seven  languages.  A  large 
portion  of  his  poetry  is  devoted  to  the  pleasures 
of  gardening,  the  description  of  flowers,  and  the 
pecimen  of  his 
an  orchard-pil- 


"  Quisquis  in  lisec  furtim  reptas  viridaria  nostra 
Tangere  fallaci  poma  caveto  manu, 
Si  non  obsequeris  faxit  Deus  omne  quod  opto, 
Cum  malis  nostris  ut  mala  cuneta  feres." 

Professor  Oswald  Seidensticker,  to  whose  pa- 


punning 

after  his  arrival  he  united  himself  with  the  Soci-  ;  forer  :  — 
ety  of  Friends,  and  became  one  of  its  most  able 
and  devoted  members  ,  as  well  as  the  recognized 
head  and  lawgiver  of  the  settlement.  He  mar 
ried,  two  years  after  his  arrival,  Anneke  (Anna), 
daughter  of  Dr.  Klosterman,  of  Muhlheim. 

In   the    year  1688    he   drew   up  a    memorial 

against  slaveholding,  which  was  adopted  by  the  I  pers  in  Der  Deutsche  Pioneer  and  that  able  peri* 
Gennantown  Friends  and  sent  up  to  the  Monthly  odical  the  "  Penn  Monthly,"  of  Philadelphia,  1 
Meeting,  and  thence  to  the  Yearly  Meeting  at  i  am  indebted  for  many  of  the  foregoing  facts  in 
Philadelphia.  It  is  noteworthy  as  the  first  pro-  \  regard  to  the  German  pilgrims  of  the  New  World, 
test  made  by  a  religious  body  against  Negro  '.,  thus  closes  his  notice  of  Pastorius  :  — 
Slavery.  The  original  document  was  discovered  |  "No  tombstone,  not  even  a  record  of  burial, 
(n  1844  by  the  Philadelphia  antiquarian  ,  Nathan  !  indicates  where  his  remains  have  found  their  last 
Kite,  and  published  in  "The  Friend"  (Vol.  resting-place,  and  the  pardonable  desire  to  asso- 
XVIII.  No.  16).  It  is  a  bold  and  direct  appeal  ciate  the  homage  due  to  this  distinguished  man 
to  the  best  instincts  of  the  heart.  "  Have  not,"  j  with  some  visible  memento  cannot  be  gratified 
hfi  asks,  "  these  negroes  as  much  right  to  fight  i  There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  he  was  in- 
for  their  freedom  as  you  have  to  keep  them  ;  terred  in  any  other  place  than  the  Friends'  old 
slaves?"  i  bury  ing-ground  in  Germantown,  though  the 

Under  the  wise  direction  of  Pastorius,  the  fact  is  not  attested  by  any  definite  source  of  in- 
ftennantown  settlement  grew  and  prospered,  formation.  After  all,  this  obliteration  of  the 
The  inhabitants  planted  orchards  and  vineyards,  last  trace  of  his  earthly  existence  is  but  typical 
and  surrounded  themselves  with  souvenirs  of  of  what  has  overtaken  the  times  which  he  repre- 
their  old  home.  A  large  number  of  them,  were  sents;  that  German  town  which  he  founded,  which 


PRELUDE. 


359 


saw  him  live  and  move,  is  at  present  but  a  quaint 
idyl  of  the  past,  almost  a  myth,  barely  remem 
bered  and  little  cared  for  by  the  keener  race  that 
has  succeeded." 

The  Pilgrims  of  Plymouth  have  not  lacked 
historian  and  poet.  Justice  has  been  done  to 
their  faith,  courage,  and  self-sacrifice,  and  to 
the  mighty  influence  of  their  endeavors  to  estab 
lish  righteousness  on  the  earth.  The  Quaker 
pilgrims  of  Pennsylvania,  seeking  the  same  ob 
ject  by  different  means,  have  not  been  equally 
fortunate.  The  power  of  their  testimony  for 
truth  and  holiness,  peace  and  freedom,  enforced 
only  by  what  Milton  calls  "  theunresistible  might 
(if  meekness,"  has  been  felt  through  two  centu 
ries  in  the  amelioration  of  penal  severities,  the 
abolition  of  slavery,  the  reform  of  the  erring,  the 
relief  of  the  poor  and  suffering,  —  felt,  in  brief, 
in  every  step  of  human  progress.  But  of  the 
men  themselves,  with  the  single  exception  of 
William  Penn,  scarcely  anything  is  known. 
Contrasted,  from  the  outset,  with  the  stern,  ag 
gressive  Puritans  of  New  England,  they  have 
come  to  be  regarded  as  "  a  feeble  folk,"  with  a 
personality  as  doubtful  as  their  unrecorded 
graves.  They  were  not  soldiers,  like  Miles  Stand- 
ish  ;  they  had  no  figure  so  picturesque  as  Vane, 
no  leader  so  rashly  brave  and  haughty  as  Endi- 
cott.  No  Cotton  Mather  wrote  their  Magnalia ; 
they  had  no  awful  drama  of  supernaturalism  in 
which  Satan  and  his  angels  were  actors ;  and  the 
only  witch  mentioned  in  their  simple  annals  was 
a  poor  old  Swedish  woman,  who,  on  complaint 
of  her  countrywomen,  was  tried  and  acquitted  of 
everything  but  imbecility  and  folly.  Nothing  but 
commonplace  offices  of  civility  came  to  pass  be 
tween  them  and  the  Indians  ;  indeed,  their  ene 
mies  taunted  them  with  the  fact  that  the  savages 
did  not  regard  them  as  Christians,  but  just  such 
men  as  themselves.  Yet  it  must  be  apparent  to 
every  careful  observer  of  the  progress  of  Ameri 
can  civilization  that  its  two  principal  currents 
had  their  sources  in  the  entirely  opposite  direc 
tions  of  the  Puritan  and  Quaker  colonies.  To 
use  the  words  of  a  late  writer  :  *  "  The  historical 
forces,  with  which  no  others  may  be  compared  in 
their  influence  on  the  people,  have  been  those  of 
the  Puritan  and  the  Quaker.  The  strength  of 
the  one  was  in  the  confession  of  an  invisible 
Presence,  a  righteous,  eternal  Will,  which  would 
establish  righteousness  on  earth  ;  and  thence 
arose  the  conviction  of  a  direct  personal  respon 
sibility,  which  could  be  tempted  by  no  external 
splendor  and  could  be  shaken  by  no  internal 
agitation,  and  could  not  be  evaded  or  transferred. 
The  strength  of  the  other  was  the  witness  in  the 
human  spirit  to  an  eternal  Word,  an  Inner  Voice 
which  spoke  to  each  alone,  while  yet  it  spoke  to 
every  man ;  a  Light  which  each  was  to  follow, 
and  which  yet  was  the  light  of  the  world ;  and 
all  other  voices  were  silent  before  this,  and  the 
solitary  path  whither  it  led  was  more  sacred  than 
the  worn  ways  of  cathedral -aisles." 

It  will  be  sufficiently  apparent  to  the  reader 
that,  in  the  poem  which  follows,  I  have  attempted 
nothing-  beyond  a  study  of  the  life  and  times  of 
the  Pennsylvania  colonist,  —  a  simple  picture  of 
a  noteworthy  man  and  his  locality.  The  colors 
of  my  sketch  are  all  very  sober,  toned  down  to 
the  quiet  and  dreamy  atmosphere  through  which 
its  subject  is  visible.  Whether,  in  the  glare 
and  tumult  of  the  present  time,  such  a  picture 

Mulford's  Nation,  pp.  267,  268. 


will  find  favor  may  well  be  questioned.  I  only 
know  that  it  has  beguiled  for  me  some  hours  of 
weariness,  and  that,  whatever  may  be  its  meas 
ure  of  public  appreciation,  it  has  been  to  me  its 
own  reward. 

J.  G.  W. 
AMESBURY,  5th  mo.,  1872. 


HAIL  to  posterity ! 
Hail,  future  men  of  Germanopolis ! 

Let  the  young  generations  yet  to  be 
Look  kindly  upon  this. 
Think  how  your  fathers  left  their  native 

land,  — 
Dear     German-land !        0      sacred 

hearths  and  homes  !  — 
And,  where  the  wild  beast  roams, 

In  patience  planned 
New   forest-homes    beyond  the  mighty 

sea, 

There  undisturbed  and  free 
To  live  as  brothers  of  one  family. 
What  pains  and  cares  befell, 

What  trials  and  what  fears, 
Remember,  and  wherein  we  have  done 

well 
Follow  our  footsteps,  men  of  coming 

years  ! 

Where  we  have  failed  to  do 
Aright,  or  wisely  live, 
Be  warned  by  us,  the  better  way  pur 
sue, 
And,  knowing  we  were  human,  even  as 

you. 

Pity  us  and  forgive  ! 
Farewell,  Posterity ! 
Farewell,  dear  Germany ! 
Forevermore  farewell ! 
From  the  Latin  of  FRANCIS  DANIEL  PASTORIUS 
in  the  Germantown  Records.     1688. 


PRELUDE. 

I  SING  the  Pilgrim  of  a  softer  clime 
And  milder  speech  than  those  brave 

men's  who  brought 
To  the  ice  and  iron  of  our  winter  time 
A  will  as  firm,  a  creed  as  stern,  and 

wrought 
With  one  mailed  hand,  and  with  the 

other  fought. 
Simply,    as   fits  my   theme,  in   homely 

rhyme 

I  sing  the  blue-eyed  German  Sp«ner 
taught, 


360 


THE   PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM. 


Through  whose  veiled,  mystic  faith  the 

Inward  Light, 
Steady  and  still,  an  easy  brightness, 

shone, 
Transfiguring  all  things  in  its  radiance 

white. 
The  garland  which  his  meekness  never 

sought 
I  bring  him  ;    over  fields  of  harvest 

sown 

With  seeds  of  blessing,   now  to  ripe 
ness  grown, 

I  bid  the  sower  pass  before  the  reapers' 
sight. 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM. 

NEVER  in  tenderer  quiet  lapsed  the 
day 

From  Pennsylvania's  vales  of  spring 
away, 

"Where,  forest-walled,  the  scattered  ham 
lets  lay 

Along  the  wedded  rivers.      One  long 

bar 
Of  purple  cloud,  on  which  the  evening 

star 
Shone  like  a  jewel  on  a  scimitar, 

Held  the  sky's  golden  gateway.  Through 

the  deep 
Hush  of  the  woods  a  murmur  seemed  to 

creep, 
The  Schuylkill  whispering  in  a  voice  of 

sleep. 

All  else  was  still.  The  oxen  from  their 
ploughs 

Rested  at  last,  and  from  their  long  day's 
browse 

Came  the  dun  files  of  Krisheim's  home- 
bound  cows. 

And  the  young  city,  round  whose  virgin 

zone 
The  rivers  like  two  mighty  arms  were 

thrown, 
Marked  by  the  smoke  of  evening  fires 

alone, 

Lay  in  the  distance,  lovely  even  then 
"With  its   fair  women   and    its  stately 

men 
Gracing   the    forest    court   of  "William 

Penn, 


Jrban  yet  sylvan;  in  its  rough-hewu 
frames 

)f  oak  and  pine  the  dryads  held  their 
claims, 

\nd  lent  its  streets  their  pleasant  wood 
land  names. 

Anna  Pastorius  down  the  leafy  lane 
Booked  city- ward,  then  stooped  to  prune 

_  again 
:Ier  vines  and  simples,  with  asigh  of  pain. 

^or  fast  the  streaks  of  ruddy  sunset  paled 
[a  the  oak  clearing,   and,   as   duylight 

failed, 
Slow,  overhead,  the  dusky  night-birds 

sailed. 

Again  she  looked:  between  green  walls 

of  shade, 
With  low-bent  head  as  if  with  sorrow 

weighed, 
Daniel  Pastorius  slowly  came  and  said, 

'  God's    peace  be  with  thee,  Anna  ! " 

Then  he  stood 

Silent  before  her,  wrestling  with  the  mood 
Of  one  who  sees  the  evil  and  not  good. 

What   is  it,   my  Pastorius  ?  "     As  she 

spoke, 
A  slow,  faint  smile  across  his  features 

broke, 
Sadder  than  tears.  "Dear  heart,"  he 

said,  ' '  our  folk 

"Are  even  as  others.     Yea,   our  good 
liest  Friends 
Are  frail  ;  our  elders  have  their  selfish 

ends, 
And  few  dare  trust  the  Lord  to  make 

amends 

"  For  duty's  loss.   So  even  our  feeble  word 
For  the  dumb  slaves  the  startled  meet 
ing  heard 
As  if  a  stone  its  quiet  waters  stirred ; 

"  And,  as  the  clerk  ceased  reading,  there 

began 

A  ripple  of  dissent  which  downward  ran 
In  widening  circles,  as  from  man  to  man. 

"Somewhat  was  said  of  running  before 
sent, 

Of  tender  fear  that  some  their  guide  out 
went, 

Troublers  of  Israel.     I  was  scarce  intent 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM. 


361 


"On  hearing,   for  behind  the  reverend 

row 
Of  gallery  Friends,  in  dumb  and  piteous 

show, 
I  saw,  methought,  dark  faces  full  of  woe. 

"  And,  in  the  spirit,  I  was  taken  where 
They  toiled  and  suffered  ;   I  was  made 

aware 
Of  shame  and  wrath  and  anguish  and 

despair  ! 

"And  while  the  meeting  smothered  our 

poor  plea 
With    cautious  phrase,    a  Voice   there 

seemed  to  be, 
'  As  ye  have  done  to  these  ye  do  to  me  !  " 

"So  it  all   passed;    and  the  old  tithe 

went  on 

Of  anise,  mint,  and  cumin,  till  the  sun 
Set,   leaving  still   the    weightier  work 

undone. 

"  Help,  for  the  good  man  faileth  !     Who 

is  strong, 
If  these  be   weak?     Who  shall  rebuke 

the  wrong, 
If  these  consent  ?  How  long,  0  Lord  ! 

how  long  !  " 

He  ceased ;    and,   bound  in  spirit  with 

the  bound, 
With  folded  arms,  and  eyes  that  sought 

the  ground, 
Walked  musingly  his  little  garden  round. 

About  him,  beaded  with  the  falling  dew, 
Rare  plants  of  power  and  herbs  of  healing 

grew, 
Such  as  Van  Helmont  and  Agrippa knew. 

For,  by  the  lore  of  Gorlitz'  gentle  sage, 
With  the  mild  mystics  of  his  dreamy  age 
He  read  the  herbal  signs  of  nature's  page, 

As  once  he  heard  in  sweet  Von  Merlau's75 

bowers 

Fair  as  herself,  in  boyhood's  happy  hours, 
The   pious    Spener    read    his    creed  in 

flowers. 

"  The  dear  Lord  give  us  patience  !  "  said 

his  wife, 

Touching  with  finger-tip  an  aloe,  rife 
With  leaves  sharp-pointed  like  an  Aztec 

knife 


Or  Carib  spear,  a  gift  to  William  Penn 
From  the  rare  gardens  of  John  Evelyn, 
Brought    from  the   Spanish    Main    by 
merchantmen. 

"See  this  strange  plant  its  steady  pur 
pose  hold, 

And,  year  by  year,  its  patient  leaves 
unfold, 

Till  the  young  eyes  that  watched  it  first 
are  old. 

"  But  some   time,   thou  hast  told  me, 

there  shall  come 
A  sudden  beauty,  brightness,  and  per-. 

fume, 
The  century-moulded  bud  shall  burst  in 

bloom. 

' '  So  may  the  seed  which  hath  been  sown 

to-day 
Grow  with  the  years,  and,  after  long 

delay, 
Break  into  bloom,  and  God's  eternal  Yea 

"  Answer  at  last  the  patient  prayers  of 

them 
Who  now,  by  faith  alone,  behold  its 

stem 
Crowned  with  the  flowers  of  Freedom's 

diadem. 

"Meanwhile,   to  feel  and  suffer,  work 

and  wait, 
Remains  for  us.     The  wrong  indeed  it 

great, 
But  love  and  patience  conquer  soon  or 

late." 

' '  Well    hast  thou    said,    my  Anna  !  " 

Tenderer 
Than  youth's  caress  upon  the  head  of 

her 
Pastorius  laid  hishand.   ' '  Shall  we  demur 

"Because  the  vision   tarrieth  ?     In  an 

hour 
We  dream  not  of  the  slow-grown  bud 

may  flower, 
And  what  was  sown  in  weakness  rise  in 

power !  " 

Then  through  the  vine-draped  door  whose 

legend  read, 

"  PEOCUL  ESTE  PROPHANI  !  "  Anna  led 
To  where   their  child  upon   his  little 

bed 


362 


THE   PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM. 


Looked  up  and  smiled.      "  Dear  heart," 

she  said,  "if  we 

Must  bearers  of  a  heavy  burden  be, 
Our  boy,  God  willing,  yet  the  day  shall  see 

"  When,  from  the  gallery  to  the  farthest 

seat, 
Slave  and  slave-owner  shall  no  longer 

meet, 
But  all  sit  equal  at  the  Master's  feet." 

On  the  stone  hearth  the  blazing  walnut 

block 
Set  the  low  walls  a-glimmer,  showed  the 

cock 
.Rebuking  Peter  on  the  Van  Wyck  clock, 

Shone  on  old  tomes  of  law  and  physic, 
side 

By  side  with  Fox  and  Behmen,  played 
at  hide 

And  seek  with  Anna,  midst  her  house 
hold  pride 

Of  flaxen  webs,  and  on  the  table,  bare 
Of  costly  cloth  or  silver  cup,  but  where, 
Tasting  the  fat  shads  of  the  Delaware, 

The  courtly  Penn  had  praised  the  good- 
wife's  cheer, 

And  quoted  Horace  o'er  her  home-brewed 
beer, 

Till  even  grave  Pastorius  smiled  to  hear. 

In  such  a  home,  beside  the  Schuylkill's 

wave, 
He  dwelt  in  peace  with  God  and  man, 

and  gave 
Food  to  the  poor  and  shelter  to  the  slave. 

For  all  too  soon  the  New  World's  scan 
dal  shamed 

The  righteous  code  by  Penn  and  Sidney 
framed, 

And  men  withheld  the  human  rights 
they  claimed. 

And  slowly  wealth  and  station  sanction 
lent, 

And  hardened  avarice,  on  its  gains  in 
tent. 

Stifled  the  inward  whisper  of  dissent. 

Yet  all  the  while  the  burden  rested  sore 
On  tender  hearts.    At  last  Pastorius  bore 
Their  warning  message  to  the  Church's 
door 


In  God's  name  ;  and  the  leaven  of  the 
word 

Wrought  ever  after  in  the  souls  who 
heard, 

And  a  dead  conscience  in  its  grave- 
clothes  stirred 

To   troubled   life,   and   urged  the  vain 

excuse 

Of  Hebrew  custom,  patriarchal  use, 
Good  in  itself  if  evil  in  abuse. 

Gravely  Pastorius  listened,  not  the  less 
Discerning  through  the  decent  fig-leaf 

dress 
Of  the  poor  plea  its  shame  of  selfishness. 

One  Scripture  rule,  at  least,  was  unfor- 

.  got; 
He  hid  the  outcast,  and  bewrayed  him 

not; 
And,  when  his  prey  the  human  hunter 

sought, 

He  scrupled  not,  while  Anna's  wise  delay 
And  proffered  cheer  prolonged  the  mas 
ter's  stay, 
To  speed  the  black  guest  safely  on  his  way. 

Yet,  who  shall  guess  his  bitter  grief  who 

lends 
His  life  to  some  great  cause,  and  finds 

his  friends 
Shame  or  betray  it  for  their  private  ends  ? 

How  felt  the  Master  when  his  chosen 

strove 

In  childish  folly  for  their  seats  above  ; 
And  that  fond  mother,  blinded  by  her 

love, 

Besought  him  that  her  sons,  beside  his 

throne, 
Might  sit  on  either  hand?     Amidst  his 

own 
A  stranger  oft,  companionless  and  lone, 

God's  priest  and  prophet  stands.     The 

martyr's  pain 
Is  not  alone  from  scourge  and  cell  and 

chain ; 
Sharper  the  pang  when,  shouting  in  his 

train, 

His  weak  disciples  by  their  lives  deny 
The  loud  hosannas  of  their  daily  cry, 
And  make  their  echo  of  his  truth  a  lie. 


THE   PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM 


363 


His  forest  home  no  hermit's  cell  he  found, 
Guests,  motley-minded,  drew  his  hearth 

around, 
And  held  armed  truce  upon  its  neutral 

ground. 

Their  Indian  chiefs  with  battle-bows  un 
strung, 

Strong,  hero-limbed,  like  those  whom 
Homer  sung, 

Pastorius  fancied,  when  the  world  was 
young, 

Came  with  their  tawny  women,  lithe  and 

tall, 
Like  bronzes  in  his  friend  Von  Rodeck's 


Comely,  if  black,  and  not  unpleasing  all. 

There  hungry  folk  in  homespun  drab  and 
gray 

Drew  round  his  board  on  Monthly  Meet 
ing  day, 

Genial,  half  merry  in  their  friendly  way. 

Or,  haply,  pilgrims  from  the  Fatherland, 
Weak,  timid,  homesick,  slow  to  under 
stand 

The  New  World's  promise,  sought  his 
helping  hand. 

Or  painful  Kelpius  7°  from  his  hermit  den 
By  Wissahickon,  maddest  of  good  men, 
Dreamed   o'er   the   Chiliast   dreams   of 
Petersen. 

Deep   in   the  woods,   where  the   small 

river  slid 
Snake-like    in    shade,    the    Helmstadt 

Mystic  hid, 
Weird  as  a  wizard  over  arts  forbid, 

Reading  the  books  of  Daniel  and  of  John, 
And  Behmen's  Morning-Redness,  through 

the  Stone 
Of  Wisdom,  vouchsafed  to  his  eyes  alone, 

Whereby  he  read  what  man  ne'er  read 

before, 
And  saw  the  visions  man  shall  see  no 

more, 
Till  the  great  angel,  striding  sea   and 

shore, 

Shall  bid  all  flesh  await,  on  land  or  ships, 
The  warning  trump  of  the  Apocalypse, 
Shattering  the  heavens  before  the  dread 
eclipse. 


Ormeek-eyed  Mennonist  his  bearded  chin 
Leaned  o'er  the  gate;    or  Ranter,  pure 

within, 
Aired  his  perfection  in  a  world  of  sin. 

Or,  talking  of  old  home  scenes,  Op  dei 

Graaf 
Teased  the  low  back-log  with  his  shod- 

den  staff, 
Till  the  red  embers  broke  into  a  laugh 

And  dance  of  flame,  as  if  they  fain  would 
cheer 

The  rugged  face,  half  tender,  half  aus 
tere, 

Touched  with  the  pathos  of  a  homesick 
tear! 

Or  Sluyter,77  saintly  familist,  whose  word 
As  law  the  Brethren  of  the  Manor  heard, 
Announced   the   speedy   terrors  of  the 
Lord, 

And  turned,  like  Lot  at  Sodom,  from 

his  race, 
Above  a  wrecked  world  with  complacent 

face 
Riding  secure  upon  his  plank  of  grace  ! 

Haply,    from  Finland's  birchen  groves 

exiled, 
Manly  in  thought,   in   simple  ways  a 


His  white  hair  floating  round  his  visage 
mild, 

The  Swedish  pastor  sought  the  Quaker's 

door, 
Pleased  from  his  neighbor's  lips  to  hear 

once  more 
His  long-disused  and  half- forgotten  lore 

For  both   could   baffle    Babel's   lingual 

curse, 

And  speak  in  Bion's  Doric,  and  rehearse 
Cleanthes'   hymn   or  Virgil's   sounding 

verse. 

And  oft  Pastorius  and  the  meek  old  man 
Argued  as  Quaker  and  as  Lutheran, 
Ending  in  Christian  love,  as  they  began. 

With  lettered  Lloyd  on  pleasant  morns 

he  strayed 

Where  Sommerhausen  over  vales  of  shade 
Looked   miles  away,    by    every  flower 

delayed, 


364 


THE   PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM. 


Or  song  of  bird,  happy  and  free  with  one 
Who  loved,  likehim,  to  let  his  memory  run 
Over  old  fields  of  learning,  and  to  sun 

Himself  in  Plato's  wise  philosophies, 
And  dream  with  Philo  over  mysteries 
Whereof   the  dreamer    never  finds  the 
keys ; 

To   touch  all    themes  of  thought,   nor 

weakly  stop 
For  doubt  of  truth,  but  let  the  buckets 

drop 
Deep  down  and  bring  the  hidden  waters 

up.  78 

For  there  was  freedom  in  that  wakening 

time 

Of  tender  souls ;  to  differ  was  not  crime  ; 
The  varying  bells  made  up  the  perfect 

chime. 

On  lips  unlike  was  laid  the  altar's  coal, 
The  white,  clear  light,  tradition-colored, 

stole 
Through  the  stained  oriel  of  each  human 

soul. 

Gathered  from  many  sects,  the  Quaker 

brought 

His  old  beliefs,  adjusting  to  the  thought 
That  moved  his  soul  the  creed  his  fathers 

taught. 

One  faith  alone,  so  broad  that  all  man 
kind 

Within  themselves  its  secret  witness  find, 
The  soul's  communion  with  the  Eternal 
Mind, 

The  Spirit's  law,  the  Inward  liule  and 

Guide, 

Scholar  and  peasant,  lord  and  serf,  allied, 
The  polished  Penn  and  Cromwell's  Iron 
side. 

As  still  in  Homskerck's  Quaker   Meet 
ing,179  face 
By  face  in  Flemish  detail,  we  may  trace 


How     loose-mouthed 
ancestral  grace 


boor     and     fine 


Sat  in  close  contrast,  —  the  clipt-headed 
churl, 

Broad  market-dame,  and  simple  serving- 
girl 

By  skirt  of  silk  and  periwig  in  curl ! 


For    soul  touched   soul;    the   spiritual 

treasure-trove 
Made   all  men  equal,    none   could  rise 

above 
Nor  sink  below  that  level  of  God's  love. 

So,    with    his  rustic  neighbors  sitting 

down, 
The  homespun  frock  beside  the  scholar's 

gown, 
Pastorius  to  the  manners  of  the  town 

Added  the  freedom  of  the  woods,   and 

sought 
The  bookless  wisdom  by  experience 

taught, 
And  learned  to  love  his  new-found  home, 

while  not 

Forgetful  of  the  old;  the  seasons  went 
Their  rounds,  and  somewhat  to  his  spirit 

lent 

Of  their  own  calm  and  measureless  con 
tent. 

Glad  even  to  tears,  he  heard  the  robin 

sing 
His   song   of  welcome   to  the   Western 

spring, 
And  bluebird  borrowing  from  the  sky 

his  wing. 

And  when  the  miracle  of  autumn  came. 
And  all  the  woods  with  many-colored 

flame 
Of  splendor,  making  summer's  greenness 

tame, 

Burned,  unconsurned,  a  voice  without  a 

sound 
Spake  to  him  from  each  kindled  bush 

•  around, 
And  made  the  strange,  new  landscape 

holy  ground ! 

And  when  the  bitter  north-wind,  keen  and 

swift, 
Swept  the  white  street  and  piled  the 

door  yard  drift, 
He  exercised,  as  Friends  might  say,  his 

gift 

Of  verse,   Dutch,   English,    Latin,   like 

the  hash 

Of  corn  and  beans  in  Indian  succotash  ; 
Dull,  doubtless,  but  with  here  and  there 

a  flash 


THE   PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM, 


365 


Of   wit  and    fine    conceit, —the  good    Pastorius  answered  all:  while  seed  and 


root 


Sent  from  his  new  home  grew  to  flower 
and  fruit 


man's  play 

Of  quiet  fancies,  meet  to  while  away 
The  slow  hours  measuring  off  an  idle  day. 

!  Along  the  Rhine  and  at  the  Spessarr  s 
At  evening,  while  his  wife  put  on  her  !  foot ; 

Of  love's  endurance,    from  its  niche  he    And,  in  return,  the  flowers  his  boyhood 

took  knew 

The  written  pages  of  his  ponderous  book.    Smiled  at   his  door,   the  same  in  form 

and  hue, 


And  read,  in  half  the  languages  of  man, 
His  "  Rusca  Apium,"  which  with  bees 

began, 
And  through  the  gamut  of  creation  ran. 

Or,  now  and  then,  the  missive  of  some 

friend 
In    gray    Altorf  or    storied    Niirnberg 

penned 
Dropped  in  upon  him  like  a  guest  to 

spend 

The     night      beneath      his     roof-tree. 

Mystical 
The  fair  Yon  Merlau   spake  as   waters 

fall 
And  voices  sound   in  dreams,   and  yet 

withal 

Human  and  sweet,  as  if  each  far,  low 

tone, 

Over  the  roses  of  her  gardens  blown 
Brought  the  warm  sense  of  beauty  all 

her  own. 

Wise  Spener  questioned  what  his  friend 

could  trace 

Of  spiritual  influx  or  of  saving  grace 
In  the  wild  natures  of  the  Indian  race. 

And  learned  Schurmberg,  fain,  at  times, 
to  look 

From  Talmud,  Koran,  Veds,  and  Penta 
teuch, 

Sought  out  his  pupil  in  his  far-off  nook, 

To  query  with  him  of  climatic  change, 
Of  bird,  beast,  reptile,  in  his  forest  range, 
Of  flowers  and  fruits  and  simples  new 
and  strange. 

And  thus  the  Old  and  New  World 
reached  {heir  hands 


And  on  his  vines  the  Rhenish  clusters 
grew. 

No  idler  he  ;  whoever  else  might  shirk, 
He  set  his  hand  to  every  honest  work, — 
Farmer  and  teacher,  court  and  meeting 
clerk. 

Still  on  the  town  seal  his  device  is  found, 
Grapes,  flax,  and  thread-spool  011  a  tre 
foil  ground, 

With  "  VINUM,  LINUM  ET  TEXTBINTTM  " 
wound. 

One  house  sufficed  for  gospel  and  for  law, 
Where  Paul  and  Grotius,  Scripture  text 

and  saw, 
Assured  the  good,  and  neld  the  rest  in  awe. 

Whatever    lega1     maze     he     wandered 

through, 
He  kept  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  in 

view, 
And  justice  always  into  mercy  grew. 

No  whipping-post  he  needed,  stocks,  nor 

jail,  ' 
Nor   ducking-stool ;    the   orchard-thief 

grew  pale 
At  his  rebuke,  the  vixen  ceased  to  rail, 

The  usurer's  grasp  released  the  forfeit 
land; 

The  slanderer  faltered  at  the  witness- 
stand, 

And  all  men  took  his  counsel  for  com 
mand. 

Was  it  caressing  air,  the  brooding  love 
Of    tenderer  skies  than   German  land 

knew  of, 
Green  calm  below,  blue  quietness  above,. 


Across  the  water,  and  the  friendly  lands  |  Still  flow  of  water,  deep  repose  of  wood 
Talked    with    each    other     from    their    That,  with  a  sense  of  loving  Fatherhood 
severed  strands.  And  childlike  trust  in  the  Eternal  Good, 


366 


THE   PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM. 


Softened  all  hearts,  and  dulled  the  edge 

of  hate, 
Hushed  strife,  and  taught  impatient  zeal 

to  wait 
The  slow  assurance  of  the  better  state  ? 

Who    knows  what  goadings    in    their 

sterner  way 

O'er  jagged  ice,  relieved  by  granite  gray, 
Blew  round  the  men  of  Massachusetts 

Bay? 

What  hate  of  heresy  the  east-wind  w^Ve  ? 
What  hints  of  pitiless  power  and  terror  I 

spoke 
In  waves  that  on  their  iron  coast-line 

broke  ? 

Be  it  as  it  may :  within  the  Land  of  Penn 

The  sectary  yielded  to  the  citizen, 

And   peaceful  dwelt  the  many-creeded 


Peace   brooded   over   all.      No   trumpet 

stung 

The  air  to  madness,  and  no  steeple  flung 
Alarums  down  from  bells  at  midnight 

rung. 

The  land  slept  well.     The  Indian  from 

his  face 
Washed  all  his  war-paint  off,  and  in  the 

place 
Of   battle -marches    sped   the    peaceful 

chase, 

Or  wi -ought  for  wages  at  the  white  man's 

side,  — 

Giving  to  kindness  what  his  native  pride 
And  lazy  freedom  to  all  else  denied. 


A-nd  well  the  curious  scholar  loved  the 


old 


The  desert  blossomed  round  him ;  wheat- 
fields  rolled 

Beneath  the  warm  wind  waves  of  green 
and  gold ; 

The  planted  ear  returned  its  hundred 
fold. 

Great  clusters  ripened  in  a  warmer  sun 
Than  that  which  by  the  Rhine  stream 

shines  upon 
The  purpling  hillsides  with  low  vines 

o'errun. 

About  each  rustic  porch  the  humming 
bird 

Tried  with  light  bill,  that  scarce  a  petal 
stirred, 

The  Old  World  flowers  to  virgin  soil 
transferred ; 

And  the  first-fruits  of  pear  and  apple, 
bending 

The  young  boughs  down,  their  gold  and 
russet  blending, 

Made  glad  his  heart,  familiar  odors  lend 
ing 

To  the  fresh  fragrance  of  the  birch  and 

pine, 

Life-everlasting,  bay,  and  eglantine, 
And  all  the  subtle  scents  the  woods  com 
bine. 


Fair  First-Day  mornings,  steeped  in 
summer  calm 

Warm,  tender,  restful,  sweet  with  wood 
land  balm, 

Came  to  him,  like  some  mother-hallowed 
psalm 

To  the  tired  grinder  at  the  noisy  wheel 
Of  labor,  winding  off  from  memory's  reel 
A  golden  thread  of  music.    With  no  peal 


Traditions  that  his  swarthy  neighbors 
told 

By  wigwam-fires  when  nights  were  grow 
ing  cold, 

Discerned   the  fact  round   which  their 

fancy  drew 
Its  dreams,  and  held  their  childish  faith 

more  true 
To  God  and  man  than  half  the  creeds  he 

knew.80 


Of  bells  to  call   them  to  the  house  of 

»t*  *  _   ^ 


praise, 

The  scattered  settlers  through  green  for 
est-ways 

Walked  meeting  -  ward.  In  reverent 
amaze 

The  Indian  trapper  saw  them,  from  the 

dim 

Shade  of  the  alders  on  the  rivulet's  rim, 
Seek  the  Great  Spirit's  house  to  talk 

with  Him. 


THE   PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM. 


367 


There,   through  the  gathered  stillness 

multiplied 

And  made  intense  by  sympathy,  outside 
The  sparrows  sang,  and  the  gold-robin 

cried, 

A-swing  upon   his  elm.     A  faint   per 
fume- 
Breathed  through  the  open  windows  of 

the  room 

From  locust-trees,  heavy  with  clustered 
bloom. 

Thither,  perchance,  sore-tried  confessors 

came, 

Whose  fervor  jail  nor  pillory  could  tame, 
Proud  of  the  cropped  ears  meant  to  be 

their  shame, 

Men    who    had    eaten    slavery's    bitter 

bread 
In  Indian  isles  ;  pale  women  who  had 

bled 
Under  the  hangman's  lash,  and  bravely 

said 

God's  message  through  their  prison's  iron 

bars ; 
And  gray  old  soldier-converts,  seamed 

with  scars 
From  every  stricken  field  of  England's 


Lowly  before  the  Unseen  Presence  knelt 
Each  waiting  heart,  till  haply  some  one 

felt 
On  his  moved  lips  the  seal  of  silence 

melt. 

Or,  without  spoken  words,  low  breath 
ings  stole 

Of  a  diviner  life  from  soul  to  soul, 
Baptizing    in   one   tender   thought   the 
whole. 

When    shaken    hands    announced    the 

meeting  o'er, 
The  friendly  group  still  lingered  at  the 

door, 
Greeting,  inquiring,  sharing  all  the  store 

Of  weekly   tidings.     Meanwhile  youth 

and  maid 
Pown  the  green  vistas  of  the  woodland 

strayed, 
Whispered  and  smiled  and  oft  their  feet 

delayed. 


Did  the  boy's  whistle  answer  back  the 

thrushes? 
Did  light  girl  laughter  ripple  through 

the  bushes, 
As  brooks  make  merry  over  roots  and 

rushes  ? 

Un vexed  the  sweet  air  seemed.    Without 

a  wound 
The   ear  of    silence   heard,    and   every 

sound 
Its  place  in  nature's  fine  accordant 

found. 

And  solemn  meeting,  summer  sky  and 

wood, 

Old  kindly  faces,  youth  and  maidenhood 
Seemed,  like  God's  new  creation,  very 

good ! 

And,  greeting  all  with  quiet  smile  and 

word, 
Pastorius  went  his  way.  The  unscared 

bird 
Sang  at  his  side ;  scarcely  the  squirrel 

stirred 

At  his  hushed  footstep  on  the  mossy  sod ; 
And,  wheresoe'er  the  good  man  looked 

or  trod, 
He  felt  the  peace  of  nature  and  of  God. 

His  social  life  wore  no  ascetic  form, 
He  loved  all   beauty,   without  fear  of 

harm, 
And  in  his  veins  his  Teuton  blood  ran 

warm. 

Strict  to  himself,  of  other  men  no  spy, 
He  made  his  own  no  circuit-judge  to  try 
The  freer  conscience  of  his  neighbors  by. 

With  love  rebuking,  by  his  life  alone, 
Gracious  and  sweet,  the  better  way  was 

shown, 
The  joy  of  one,  who,  seeking  not  his  own, 

And  faithful  to  all  scruples,  finds  at  last 
The  thorns  and  shards  of  duty  overpast, 
And  daily  life,  beyond  his  hope's  forecast, 

Pleasant  and  beautiful  with  sight  and 

sound, 
And  flowers  upspringing  in  its  narrow 

round, 
And  all  his  days  with  quiet  gladness 

crowned. 


368 


THE   PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM. 


He  sang  not  ;  but,  if  sometimes  tempted 

strong, 
He  hummed  what  seemed  like  Altorf's 

Burschen-song, 
His  good  wife  smiled,  and  did  not  count 

it  wrong. 

For  well  he  loved  his  boyhood's  brother 

band; 
His   Memory,  while  he   trod  the   New 

World's  strand, 
A  double -ganger  walked  the  Fatherland  ! 

If,  when  on  frosty  Christmas  eves  the 

light 
Shone  on  his  quiet  hearth,   he  missed 

the  sight 
Of  Yule-log,  Tree,   and  Christ-child  all 

in  white  ; 

And  closed  his  eyes,  and  listened  to  the 
sweet 

Old  wait-songs  sounding  down  his  native 
street, 

And  watched  again  the  dancers'  min 
gling  feet ; 

Yet  not  the  less,  when  once  the  vision 

passed, 

He  held  the  plain  and  sober  maxims  fast 
Of  the  dear  Friends  with  whom  his  lot 

was  cast. 

Still  all  attuned  to  nature's  melodies, 
He  loved  the  bird's  song  in  his  dooryard 

trees, 
And  the  low  hum    of    home-returning 

bees  ; 

The  blossomed  flax,   the  tulip-trees  in 

bloom 
Down  the  long  street,  the  beauty  and 

perfume 
Of  apple-boughs,  the  mingling  light  and 

gloom 

Of  Sommerhausen's  woodlands,  woven 
through 

With  sun-threads;  and  the  music  the 
wind  drew, 

Mournful  and  sweet,  from  leaves  it  over 
blew. 

And   evermore,    beneath   this    outward 

sense, 
And  through  the  common  sequence  of 

events, 
He  felt  the  guiding  hand  of  Providence 


Reach  out  of  space.     A  Voice  spake  in 

his  ear, 

And  lo  !  all  other  voices  far  and  near 
Died  at  that  whisper,  full  of  meanings 

clear. 

The  Light  of  Life  shone  round  him;  one 
by  one 

The  wandering  lights,  that  all-mislead 
ing  run, 

Went  out  like  candles  paling  in  the  sun. 

That  Light  he  followed,   step  by  step, 

where'er 

It  led,  as  in  the  vision  of  the  seer 
The  wheels  moved  as  the  spirit  in  the 

clear 

And  terrible   crystal    moved,    with   all 

their  eyes 

Watching  the  living  splendor  sink  orrise, 
Its  will  their  will,  knowing  no  otherwise. 

Within  himself  he  found  the  law  of 

right, 
He  walked  by  faith  and  not  the  letter's 

sight, 
And  read  his  Bible  by  the  Inward  Light. 

And  if  sometimes  the  slaves  of  form  and 
rule, 

Frozen  in  their  creeds  like  fish  in  win 
ter's  pool, 

Tried  the  large  tolerance  of  his  liberal 
school, 

His  door  was  free  to  men  of  every  name, 
He  welcomed  all  the  seeking  souls  who 

came, 
And  no  man's  faith  he  made  a  cause  of 

blame. 

But  best  he  loved  in  leisure  hours  to  see 
His  own  dear   Friends  sit  by  him  knee 

to  knee, 
In  social  converse,  genial,  frank,  and  free. 

There  sometimes  silence  (it  were  hard  to 

tell 

Who  owned  it  first)  upon  the  circle  fell, 
Hushed  Anna's  busy  wheel,  and  laid  its 

spell 

On  the  black  boy  who  grimaced  by  the 

hearth, 

To  solemnize  his  shining  face  of  inirth  ; 
Only  the  old  clock  ticked  amidst  the 

dearth 


"  A  jewelled  elm-tree  avenue.''     Page  369, 


THE   PAGEANT, 


369 


Of  sound  ;  nor  eye  was  raised  nor  hand 

was  stirred 
In  that  soul-sabbath,  till  at  last  some 

word 
Of  tender  counsel  or  low  prayer  was 

heard. 

Then  guests,  who  lingered  but  farewell 

to  say 
And   take    love's    message,   went  their 

homeward  way ; 
So  passed  in  peace  the  guileless  Quaker's 

day. 

His  was  the  Christian's  unsung  Age  of 

Gold, 

A  truer  idyl  than  the  bards  have  told 
Of  Arno's  banks  or  Arcady  of  old. 

Where  still  the  Friends  their  place  of 

burial  keep, 

And  century-rooted  mosses  o'er  it  creep, 
The  Niirnberg  scholar  and  his  helpmeet 

sleep. 

And  Anna's  aloe  ?     If  it  flowered  at  last 
In  Bartram's  garden,    did  John  Wool- 
man  cast 
A  glance  upon  it  as  he  meekly  passed  ? 

And  did  a  secret  sympathy  possess 
That  tender   soul,   and  for  the   slave's 

redress 
Lend  hope,  strength,  patience  ?     It  were 

vain  to  guess. 


Nay,  were  the  plant  itself  but  mythical, 
Set  in  the  fresco  of  tradition's  wall 
Like  Jothain's  bramble,  mattereth  not 
'  at  all. 

Enough    to    know  that,    through    the 

winter's  frost 
And  summer's  heat,  no  seed  of  truth  is 

lost, 
And  every  duty  pays  at  last  its  cost. 

For,  ere  Pastorius  left  the  sun  and  air, 
God   sent  the  answer  to    his  life-long 

prayer ; 
The  child  was  born  beside  the  Delaware, 

Who,    in    the    power   a   holy  purpose 

lends, 

Guided  his  people  unto  nobler  ends, 
And  left  them  worthier  of  the  name  of 

Friends. 

And  lo  !  the  fulness  of  the  time  has 

come, 

And  over  all  the  exile's  Western  home, 
From  sea  to  sea  the  flowers  of  freedom 

bloom ! 

And  joy -bells  ring,  and  silver  trumpets 

blow ; 
But    not   for    thee,    Pastorius !      Even 

so 
The  world  forgets,  but  the  wise  angels 

know. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  PAGEANT. 

A  SOUND  as  if  from  bells  of  silver, 
Or  elfin  cymbals  smitten  clear, 
Through  the  frost-pictured  panes  I 
hear. 

A  brightness  which  outshines  the  morn 
ing. 

A  splendor  brooking  no  delay, 
Beckons  and  tempts  my  feet  away. 

I  leave  the  trodden  village  highway 

For  virgin  snow-paths  glimmering 

through 

A  jewelled  elm -tree  avenue  ; 
24 


Where,    keen  against  the  walls  of  sap 
phire, 

The   gleaming    tree-bolls,    ice-em 
bossed, 
Hold  up  their  chandeliers  of  frost. 

I  tread  in  Orient  halls  enchanted, 

I  dream  the  Saga's  dream  of  caves 
Gem-lit    beneath    the    North    Sea 


I  walk  the  land  of  Eldorado, 

I  touch  its  mimic  garden  bowers, 
Its  silver  leaves  and  diamond  flow 
ers  ! 


370 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  flora  of  the  mystic  mine-world 
Around  me  lifts  on  crystal  steins 
The  petals  of  its  clustered  gems ! 

What  miracle  of  weird  transforming 

In    this  wild   work    of    frost   and 

light, 
This  glimpse  of  glory  infinite  ! 

This  foregleam  of  the  Holy  City 

Like  that  to  him  of  Patmos  given, 
The  white  bride  coming  down  from 
heaven  ! 

How  flash  the  ranked  and  mail-clad  al 
ders, 

Through  what  sharp-glancing  spears 
of  reeds 

The  brook  its  muffled  water  leads ! 

Yon  maple,  like  the  bush  of  Horeb, 

Burns  unconsumed  :   a  white,  cold 

fire 
Rays  out  from  every  grassy  spire. 

Each  slender  rush  and  spike  of  mullein, 
Low  laurel  shrub  and  drooping  fern, 
Transfigured,  blaze  where'er  I  turn. 

How  yonder  Ethiopian  hemlock 

Crowned  with  his  glistening  circlet 

stands ! 
What    jewels    light     his    swarthy 

hands ! 

Here,  where  the  forest  opens  southward, 
Between  its  hospitable  pines, 
As  through  a  door,  the  warm  sun 
shines. 

The  jewels  loosen  on  the  branches, 

And    lightly,    as     the    soft    winds 

blow, 
Fall,  tinkling,  on  the  ice  below. 

And  through  the  clashing  of  their  cym 
bals 

I  hear  the  old  familiar  fall 
Of  water  down  the  rocky  wall, 

Where,  from  its  wintry  prison  breaking, 
In  dark  and  silence  hidden  long, 
The  brook  repeats  its  summer  song. 

One  instant  flashing  in  the  sunshine, 
Keen  as  a  sabre  from  its  sheath, 
Then  lost  again  the  ice  beneath. 


I  hear  the  rabbit  lightly  leaping, 

The  foolish  screaming  of  the  jay , 
The  chopper's  axe-stroke  far  away  : 

The  clamor  of  some  neighboring  barn 
yard, 

The  lazy  cock's  belated  crow, 
Or  cattle-tramp  in  crispy  snow. 

And,  as  in  some  enchanted  forest 

The  lost  knight  hears  his  comrades 

sing, 
And,    near  at  hand,    their  bridles 

ring, 

So  welcome  I  these  sounds  and  voices, 
These    airs     from    far-oil'   summer 

blown, 
This  life  that  leaves  me  not  alone. 

For  the  white  glory  overawes  me  ; 
The  crystal  terror  of  the  seer 
Of  Chebar's  vision  blinds  me  here. 

Rebuke  me  not,  0  sapphire  heaven  ! 
Thou   stainless   earth,    lay   not  on 

me. 
Thy  keen  reproach  of  purity, 

If,  in  this  august  presence-chamber, 

I     sigh     for    summer's    leaf-green 

gloom 
And  warm  airs  thick  with  odorous 

bloom  ! 

Let  the    strange    frost-work   sink   and 

crumble, 
And   let   the   loosened  tree-boughs 

swing, 
Till  all  their  bells  of  silver  ring. 

Shine  warmly  down,  thou  sun  of  noon 
time, 

On  this  chill  pageant,  melt  and 
move 

The  winter's  frozen  heart  with  love. 

And,  soft  and   low,  thou   wind   south- 
blowing, 
Breathe  through  a  veil  of  tenderest 

haze 
Thy  prophecy  of  summer  days. 

Come  with  thy  green  relief  of  promise, 
And   to   this  dead,    cold   splendor 

bring 
The  living  jewels  of  the  spring  ! 


THE   SINGEK. 


371 


THE  SINGER. 

VEARS  since  (but  names  to  me  before), 
Two  sisters  sought  at  eve  my  door  ; 
Two   song-birds   wandering  from  their 

nest, 
A  gray  old  farm-house  in  the  West. 

How  fresh  of  life  the  younger  one, 
Half    smiles,    half    tears,   like   rain  in 

sun  ! 

Her  gravest  mood  could  scarce  displace 
The  dimples  of  her  nut-brown  face. 

Wit  sparkled  on  her  lips  not  less 
For  quick  and  tremulous  tenderness  ; 
And,  following  close  her  merriest  glance, 
Dreamed   through  her  eyes  the  heart's 
romance. 

Timid  and  still,  the  elder  had 
Even  then  a  smile  too  sweetly  sad  ; 
The  crown  of  pain  that  all  must  wear 
Too  early  pressed  her  midnight  hair. 

Yet  ere  the  summer  eve  grew  long, 
Her  modest  lips  were  sweet  with  song ; 
A  memory  haunted  all  her  words 
Of  clover-fields  and  singing  birds. 

Her  dark,  dilating  eyes  expressed 

The  broad  horizons  of  the  west ; 

Her  speech  dropped  prairie  flowers  ;  the 

gold 
Of  harvest  wheat  about  her  rolled. 

Fore-doomed    to   song    she    seemed   to 

me  : 

I  queried  not  with  destiny : 
I  knew  the  trial  and  the  need, 
fet,  all  the  more,  I  said,  God  speed  ! 

What  could  I  other  than  I  did  ? 
Could  I  a  singing-bird  forbid  ? 
Deny  the  wind-stirred  leaf  ?     Rebuke 
The  music  of  the  forest  brook  ? 

She  went  with  morning  from  my  door, 
But  left  me  richer  than  before  ; 
Thenceforth  I  knew  her  voice  of  cheer, 
The  welcome  of  her  partial  ear. 

Y"ears  passed  :  through  all  the  land  her 

name 

A  pleasant  household  word  became : 
A.11  felt  behind  the  singer  stood 
il  sweet  and  gracious  womanhood. 


Her  life  was  earnest  work,  not  play  ; 
Her  tired  feet  climbed  a  weary  way ; 
And  even  through  her  lightest  strain 
We  heard  an  undertone  of  pain. 

Unseen  of  her  her  fair  fame  grew, 
The  good  she  did  she  rarely  knew. 
Unguessed  of  her  in  life  the  love 
That  rained  its  tears  her  grave  above. 

When  last  I  saw  her,  full  of  peace, 
She  waited  for  her  great  release ; 
And  that  old  friend  so  sage  and  bland, 
Our  later  Franklin,  held  her  hand. 

For  all  that  patriot  bosoms  stirs 

Had    moved    that    woman's    heart    of 

hers, 

And  men  who  toiled  in  storm  and  sun 
Found  her  their  meet  companion. 

Our  converse,  from  her  suffering  bed 
To  healthful  themes  of  life  she  led : 
The  out-door  world  of  bud  and  bloom 
And    light    and    sweetness    filled    her 
room. 

Yet  evermore  an  underthought 
Of  loss  to  come  within  us  wrought, 
And  all  the  while  we  felt  the  strain 
Of  the  strong  will  that  conquered  pain. 

God  giveth  quietness  at  last  ! 
The  common  way  that  all  have  passed 
She  went,  with  mortal  yearnings  fond, 
To  fuller  life  and  love  beyond. 

Fold  the  rapt  soul  in  your  embrace, 
My  dear  ones  !     Give  the  singer  place 
To  you,  to  her,  —  I  know  not  where,  — 
I  lift  the  silence  of  a  prayer. 

For  only  thus  our  own  we  find  ; 
The  gone  before,  the  left  behind, 
All  mortal  voices  die  between  ; 
The  unheard  reaches  the  unseen. 

Again  the  blackbirds  sing  ;  the  streams 
Wake,    laughing,    from     their    wintei 

dreams, 

And  tremble  in  the  April  showers 
The  tassels  of  the  maple  flowers. 

But  not  for  her  has  spring  renewed 
The  sweet  surprises  of  the  wood  ; 
And  bird  and  flower  are  lost  to  her 
Who  was  their  best  interpreter  1 


372 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


What  to  shut  eyes  has  God  revealed  ? 
What  hear  the  ears  that  death  has  sealed  ? 
What  undreamed  beauty  passing  show 
Requites  the  loss  of  all  we  know  ?  . 

0  silent  land,  to  which  we  move, 
Enough  if  there  alone  be  love, 
And  mortal  need  can  ne'er  outgrow 
What  it  is  waiting  to  bestow  ! 

0  white  soul  !  from  that  far-off  shore 
Float  some  sweet  song  the  waters  o'er, 
Our  faith  confirm,  our  fears  dispel, 
With  the  old  voice  we  loved  sc  well  ! 


CHICAGO. 

MEN  said  at  vespers  :   "  All  is  well  !  " 
In  one  wild  night  the  city  fell  ; 
Fell  shrines  of  prayer  and  marts  of  gain 
Before  the  fiery  hurricane. 

On  threescore  spires  had  sunset  shone, 
Where  ghastly  sunrise  looked  on  none. 
Men  clasped  each  other's  hands,  and  said  : 
"The  City  of  the  West  is  dead  !  " 


hearts  who  fought,  in  slow  retreat, 
The  fiends  of  fire  from  street  to  street, 
Turned,  powerless,  to  the  blinding  glare, 
The  dumb  defiance  of  despair. 

A  sudden  impulse  thrilled  each  wire 
That  signalled  round  that  sea  of  fire  ; 
Swift  words  of  cheer,  warm  heart-throbs 

came; 
In  tears  of  pity  died  the  flame  ! 

From  East,  from  West,  from  South  and 

North, 

The  messages  of  hope  shot  forth, 
And,  underneath  the  severing  wave, 
The  world,  full-handed,  reached  to  save. 

Fair  seemed  the  old  ;  but  fairer  still 
The  new,  the  dreary  void  shall  fill 
With  dearer  homes  than  those  o'erthrown, 
For  love  shall  lay  each  corner-stone. 

Rise,  stricken  city  !  —  from  thee  throw 
The  ashen  sackcloth  of  thy  woe  ; 
A.nd  build,  as  to  Amphion's  strain, 
To  songs  of  cheer  thy  walls  again  ! 

How  shrivelled  in  thy  hot  distress 
The  primal  sin  of  selfishness  ! 


How  instant  rose,  to  take  thy  part, 
The  angel  in  the  human  heart .' 

Ah  !  not  in  vain  the  flames  that  tossed 

Above  thy  dreadful  holocaust ; 

The  Christ  again  has  preached  through 

thee 
The  Gospel  of  Humanity ! 


Then 


more    thy   towers   on 


lift   once 

high, 

And  fret  with  spires  the  western  sky, 
To  tell  that  God  is  yet  with  us, 
And  love  is  still  miraculous  ! 


MY   BIRTHDAY. 

BENEATH  the  moonlight  and  the  snow 

Lies  dead  my  latest  year  ; 
The  winter  winds  are  wailing  low 

Its  dirges  in  my  ear. 

I  grieve  not  with  the  moaning  wind 

As  if  a  loss  befell ; 
Before  me,  even  as  behind, 

God  is,  and  all  is  well ! 

His  light  shines  on  me  from  above, 
His  low  voice  speaks  .within,  — 

The  patience  of  immortal  love 
Outwearying  mortal  sin. 

Not  mindless  of  the  growing  years 

Of  care  and  loss  and  pain, 
My  eyes  are  wet  with  thankful  tears 

For  blessings  which  remain. 

If  dim  the  gold  of  life  has  grown, 

I  will  not  count  it  dross, 
Nor  turn  from  treasures  still  my  own 

To  sigh  for  lack  and  loss. 

The  years  no  charm  from  Nature  take  j 

As  sweet  her  voices  call, 
As  beautiful  her  mornings  break, 

As  fair  her  evenings  fall. 

Love  watches  o'er  my  quiet  ways, 
Kind  voices  speak  my  name, 

And  lips  that  find  it  hard  to  praise 
Are  slow,  at  least,  to  blame. 

How  softly  ebb  the  tides  of  will ! 

How  fields,  once  lost  or  won, 
Now  lie  behind  me  green  and  still 

Beneath  a  level  sun  ! 


THE  BREWING   OF   SOMA. 


373 


How  hushed  the  hiss  of  party  hate, 

The  clamor  of  the  throng  ! 
How  old,  harsh  voices  of  debate 

Flow  into  rhythmic  song ! 

Methinks  the  spirit's  temper  grows 

Too  soft  in  this  still  air  ; 
Somewhat  the  restful  heart  foregoes 

Of  needed  watch  and  prayer. 

The  bark  by  tempest  vainly  tossed 

May  founder  in  the  calm, 
And  he  who  braved  the  polar  frost 

Faint  by  the  isles  of  balm. 

Better  than  self-indulgent  years 
The  outflung  heart  of  youth, 

Than  pleasant  songs  in  idle  ears 
The  tumult  of  the  truth. 

Eest  for  the  weary  hands  is  good, 
And  love  for  hearts  that  pine, 

But  let  the  manly  habitude 
Of  upright  souls  be  mine. 

Let  winds  that  blow  from  heaven  refresh, 

Dear  Lord,  the  languid  air  ; 
And  let  the  weakness  of  the  flesh 

Thy  strength  of  spirit  share. 

And,  if  the  eye  must  fail  of  light, 

The  ear  forget  to  hear, 
Make  clearer  still  the  spirit's  sight, 

More  fine  the  inward  ear  ! 

Be  near  me  in  mine  hours  of  need 
To  soothe,  or  cheer,  or  warn, 

And  down  these  slopes  of  sunset  lead 
As  up  the  hills  of  morn  ! 


THE    BREWING    OF    SOMA. 

"These  libations  mixed  with  milk  have  been 
prepared  for  Indra  :  offer  Soina  to  the  drinker  of 
Souia."  —  YASHISTA,  Trans,  by  MAX  MULLER. 

THE  fagots  blazed,  the  caldron's  smoke 

Up  through  the  green  wood  curled  ; 
"  Bring  honey  from  the  hollow  oak, 
Bring  milky  sap,"  the  brewers  spoke, 
In  the  childhood  of  the  world. 

And  brewed  they  well  or  brewed  they  ill, 

The  priests  thrust  in  their  rods, 
First  tasted,  and  then  drank  their  fill, 
And  shouted,  with  one  voice  and  will, 
"  Behold  the  drink  of  gods  !  " 


They  drank,  and  lo  !  in  heart  and  brain 

A  new,  glad  life  began ; 
The  gray  of  hair  grew  young  again. 
The  sick  man  laughed  away  his  pain, 

The  cripple  leaped  and  ran. 

"  Drink,  mortals,  what  the  gods  havs 
sent, 

Forget  your  long  annoy." 
So  sang  the  priests.     From  tent  to  tent 
The  Soma's  sacred  madness  went, 

A  storm  of  drunken  joy. 

Then  knew  each  rapt  inebriate 
A  winged  and  glorious  birth, 
Soared  upward,  with  strange  joy  elate, 
Beat,  with  dazed  head,  Varuna's  gate, 
And,  sobered,  sank  to  earth. 

The  land  with  Soma's  praises  rang  ; 

On  Gihon's  banks  of  shade 
Its  hymns  the  dusky  maidens  sang ; 
In  joy  of  life  or  mortal  pang 

All  men  to  Soma  prayed. 

The  morning  twilight  of  the  race 

Sends  down  these  matin  psalms ; 
And  still  with  wondering  eyes  we  trace 
The  simple  prayers  to  Soma's  grace, 
That  Vedic  verse  embalms. 

As  in  that  child-world's  early  year, 

Each  after  age  has  striven 
By  music,  incense,  vigils  drear, 
And  trance,  to  bring  the  skies  more  near, 

Or  lift  men  up  to  heaven  !  — 

Some  fever  of  the  blood  and  brain, 

Some  self- exalting  spell, 
The  scourger's  keen  delight  of  pain, 
The  Dervish  dance,  the  Orphic  strain, 

The  wild-haired  Bacchant's  yell,  — 

The  desert's  hair-grown  hermit  sunk 

The  saner  brute  below ; 
The  naked  Santon,  hashish-drunk, 
The  cloister  madness  of  the  monk, 

The  fakir's  torture-show  ! 

And  yet  the  past  comes  round  again, 

And  new  doth  old  fulfil ; 
In  sensual  transports  wild  as  vain 
We  brew  in  many  a  Christian  fane 

The  heathen  Soma  still ! 

Dear  Lord  and  Father  of  mankind, 
Forgive  our  foolish  ways  ! 


374 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Reclothe  us  in  our  rightful  mind, 
In  purer  lives  thy  service  find, 
In  deeper  reverence,  praise. 

In  simple  trust  like  theirs  who  heard 

Beside  the  Syrian  sea 
The  gracious  calling  of  the  Lord, 
Let  us,  like  them,  without  a  word, 

Rise  up  and  follow  tliee. 

0  Sabbath  rest  by  Galilee  ! 

0  calm  of  hills  above, 
Where  Jesus  knelt  to  share  with  thee 
The  silence  of  eternity 

Interpreted  by  love  ! 

With  that  deep  hush  subduing  all 

Our  words  and  works  that  drown 
The  tender  whisper  of  thy  call, 
As  noiseless  let  thy  blessing  fall 
As  fell  thy  inaiuia  down. 

Drop  thy  still  dews  of  quietness, 

Till  all  our  strivings  cease ; 
Take  from  our  souls  the  strain  and  stress, 
And  let  our  ordered  lives  confess 

The  beauty  of  thy  peace. 

Breathe  through  the  heats  of  our  desire 
Thy  coolness  and  thy  balm  ; 

Let  sense  be  dumb,  let  flesh  retire  ; 

Speak  through  the   earthquake,  wind, 

and  lire, 
0  still,  small  voice  of  calm  f 


A  WOMAN". 

O,  DWARFED  and  wronged,  and  stained 

with  ill, 

Behold  !  thou  art  a  woman  still  ! 
And,  by  that  sacred  name  and  dear, 
I  bid  thy  better  self  appear. 
Still,  through  thy  foul  disguise,  I  see 
The  rudimental  purity, 
That,   spite  of  change  and  loss,   makes 

good 

Thy  birthright-claim  of  womanhood; 
An  inward  loathing,  deep,  intense ; 
A  shame  that  is  half  innocence. 
Cast  off  the  grave-clothes  of  thy  sin  ! 
Rise  from  the  dust  thou  liest  in, 
As  Mary  rose  at  Jesus'  word, 
Redeemed  and  white  before  the  Lord  ! 
Reclaim  thy  lost  soul  !     In  His  name, 
Rise     up,    and     break    thy    bonds    of 


Art  weak  ?     He 's  strong.     Art  fearful  t 

Hear 

The  world's  O'ercomer  :  "  Be  of  cheer  !" 
jWhat  lip  shall  judge  when  He  approves  ?| 
/Who  dare  to  scorn  the  child  he  loves  ?  ' 


DISARMAMENT. 

"PUT  up  the  sword!"     The  voice  of 

Christ  once  more 
Speaks,   in  the    pauses  of  the   cannon's 

roar, 

O'er  fields  of  corn  by  fiery  sickles  reaped 
And  left  dry  ashes  ;  over  trenches  heaped 
With  nameless  dead  ;  o'er  cities  starving 

slow 
Under  a  rain  of  fire  ;  through  wards  of 

woe 

Down  which  a  groaning  diapason  runs 
From     tortured     brothers,      husbands, 

lovers,  sons 

Of  desolate  women  in  their  far-off  homes, 
Waiting  to  hear  the  step  that  never 

comes ! 
0  men  and  brothers  !  let  that  voice  be 

heard. 
War  fails,  try  peace  ;  put  up  the  useless 

sword  ! 

Fear  not  the  end.  There  is  a  story  told 
In  Eastern  tents,  when  autumn  nights 

grow  cold, 
And  round  the  fire  the  Mongol  shepherds 

sit 

With  grave  responses  listening  unto  it  : 
Once,  on  the  errands  of  his  mercy  bent, 
Buddha,  the  holy  and  benevolent, 
Met  a  fell  monster,   luige  and  fierce  of 

look, 
Whose  awful  voice  the  hills  and  forests 

shook. 
"0    son   of  peace!"    the   giant   cried, 

"thy  fate 
Is  sealed  at  last,  and  love  shall  yield  to 

hate." 
The  unarmed  Buddha  looking,  with  no 

trace 

Of  fear  or  anger,  in  the  monster's  face, 
In  pity  said  :   "Poor  fiend,  even  thee  I 

love." 

Lo  !  as  he  spake  the  sky-tall  terror  sank 
To  hand-breadth  size  ;  the  huge  abhor 
rence  shrank 

Into  the  form  and  fashion  of  a  dove  ; 
And  where  the  thunder  of  its  rage  was 

heard, 


THE   SISTERS. 


375 


Circling  above  him  sweetly    sang    the 

bird  : 
"  Hate  hath  no  harm  for  love,"  so  ran 

the  song ; 
"  And  peace  unweaponed  conquers  every 

wrong !  " 


THE   ROBIN. 

MY  old  Welch  neighbor  over  the  way 
Crept  slowly  out  in  the  sun  of  spring, 

Pushed  from  her  ears  the  locks  of  gray, 
And  listened  to  hear  the  robin  sing. 

Her    grandson,     playing    at    marbles, 
stopped, 

And,  cruel  in  sport  as  boys  will  be, 
Tossed  a  stone  at  the  bird,  who  hopped 

From  bough  to  bough  in  the  apple-tree. 

"  Nay  !  "  said  the  grandmother  ;  "  have 

you  not  heard, 

My  poor,  bad  boy  !  of  the  fiery  pit, 
And  how,  drop  by  drop,  this   merciful 

bird 
Carries  the  water  that  quenches  it  ? 

"  He  brings  cool  dew  in  his  little  bill, 
And  lets  it  fall  on  the  souls  of  sin  : 

You  can  see  the  mark  on  his  red  breast 

still 
Of  fires  that  scorch  as  he  drops  it  in. 

"  My  poor  Bron  rhuddyn  !  my  breast- 
burned  bird, 

Singing  so  sweetly  from  limb  to  limb, 
Very  dear  to  the  heart  of  Our  Lord 

Is  he  who  pities  the  lost  like  Him  !  " 

"  Amen  !  "  I  said  to  the  beautiful  myth  ; 

"Sing,  bird  of  God,  in   my  heart  as 

well  : 
Each  good  thought  is  a  drop  wherewith 

To  cool  and  lessen  the  fires  of  hell. 

"  Prayers  of  love  like  rain-drops  fall, 
Tears  of  pity  are  cooling  dew, 

And  dear  to  the  heart  of  Our  Lord  are  all 
Who  suffer  like  Him  in  the  good  they 
do  !" 


THE  SISTERS. 

ANNIE  and  Rhoda,  sisters  twain, 
Woke  in  the  night  to  the  sound  of  rain, 


The  rush  of  wind,  the  ramp  and  roar 
Of  great  waves  climbing  a  rocky  shore. 

Annie  rose  up  in  her  bed-gown  white, 
And  looked  out  into  the  storm  and  night. 

"  Hush,  and  hearken  !  "  she  cried  in  fear, 
"  Hearest  thou  nothing,  sister  dear  ?  " 

"  I  hear  the  sea,  and  the  plash  of  rain, 
And  roar  of  the  northeast  hurricane. 

"  Get  thee  back  to  the  bed  so  warm, 
No  good  comes  of  watching  a  storm. 

"What  is  it  to  thee,  I  fain  would  know, 
That  waves  are  roaring  and  wild  winds 
blow  ? 

"  No  lover  of  thine  's  afloat  to  miss 
The  harbor-lights  on  a  night  like  this." 

"  But  I  heard  a  voice  cry  out  my  name 
Up  from  the  sea  on  the  wind  it  came  ! 

"Twice  and  thrice  have  I  heard  it  call, 
And  the  voice  is  the  voice  of  Estwick 
Hall!" 

On  her  pillow  the  sister  tossed  her  head, 
"  Hall  of  the  Heron  is  safe,"  she  said. 

"In  the  tautest  schooner  that  ever  swam 
He  rides  at  anchor  in  Anisquam. 

"And,  if  in  peril  from  swamping  sea 
Or  lee  shore  rocks,   would  he   call   on 
thee  ? " 

But  the  girl  heard  only  the  wind  and 

tide, 
And  wringing  her  small  white  hands  she 

cried  : 

' '  0    sister    Rhoda,    there 's  something 

wrong  ; 
I  hear  it  again,  so  loud  and  long. 

"  'Annie  !  Annie  ! '  I  hear  it  call, 
And  the  voice  is  the  voice  of  Estwick 
Hall  !  " 

Up  sprang  the  elder,  with  eyes  aflame, 
"  Thou  liest  !     He  never  would  call  thy 
name  ! 

"  If  he  did,  I  would  pray  the  wind  and 

sea 
To  keep  him  forever  from  thee  and  me  !  " 


376 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Then  out  of  the  sea  blew  a  dreadful  blast ; 
Like  the  cry  of  a  dying  man  it  passed. 

The  young  girl   hushed  on  her  lips  a 

groan, 
But  through  her  tears  a  strange  light 

shone,  — 

The  solemn  joy  of  her  heart's  release 
To  own  and  cherish  its  love  in  peace. 

''Dearest ! "  she  whispered,  under  breath, 
"  Life  was  a  lie,  but  true  is  death. 

"  The  love  I  hid  from  myself  away 
Shall  crown  me  now  in  the  light  of  day. 

' '  My  ears  shall  never  to  wooer  list, 
Never  by  lover  my  lips  be  kissed. 

"  Sacred  to  thee  am  I  henceforth, 
Thou  in  heaven  and  I  on  earth  !  " 

She  came  and  stood  by  her  sister's  bed  : 
"  Hall  of  the  Heron  is  dead  !  "  she  said. 

"The  wind  and  the  waves  their  work 

have  done, 
We  shall  see  him  no  more  beneath  the  sun. 

"  Little  will  reck  that  heart  of  thine, 
It  loved  him  not  with  a  love  like  mine. 

"  I,  for  his  sake,  were  he  but  here, 
Could  hem  and  'broider  thy  bridal  gear, 

"  Though  Lands  should  tremble  and  eyes 

be  wet, 
And  stitch  for  stitch  in  my  heart  be  set. 

"  But  now  my  soul  with  his  soul  I  wed  ; 
Thine  the  living,  and  mine  the  dead  !  " 


MARGUERITE. 

MASSACHUSETTS   BAY,  1760. 

THE  robins  sang  in  the  orchard,  the  buds 

into  blossoms  grew  ; 
Little  of  human  sorrow  the  buds  and  the 

robins  knew ! 

Sick,  in  an   alien  household,    the  poor 

French  neutral  lay  ; 
Into  her  lonesome  garret  fell  the  light  of 

the  April  day. 


Through  the  dusty  window,  curtained 
by  the  spider's  warp  and  woof, 

On  the  loose-laid  floor  of  hemlock,  on 
oaken  ribs  of  roof. 

The  bedquilt's  faded  patchwork,  the  tea 
cups  on  the  stand, 

The  wheel  with  flaxen  tangle,  as  it 
dropped  from  her  sick  hand  ! 

What  to  her  was  the  song  of  the  robin, 

or  warm  morning  light, 
As  she  lay  in  the  trance  of  the  dying, 

heedless  of  sound  or  sight  ? 

Done  was  the  work  of  her  hands,  she 
had  eaten  her  bitter  bread  ; 

The  world  of  the  alien  people  lay  behind 
her  dim  and  dead. 

But  her  soul  went  back  to  its  child-time  ; 

she  saw  the  sun  o'erflow 
With  gold  the  basin  of  Minas,  and  set 

over  Gasperau ; 

The  low,  bare  flats  at  ebb-tide,  the  rush 

of  the  sea  at  flood, 
Through  inlet  and  creek  and  river,  from 

dike  to  upland  wood ; 

The  gulls  in  the  red  of  morning,  the 
fish-hawk's  rise  and  fall, 

The  drift  of  the  fog  in  moonshine,  over 
the  dark  coast-wall. 

She  saw  the  face  of  her  mother,  she 
heard  the  song  she  sang  ; 

And  far  off,  faintly,  slowly,  the  bell  for 
vespers  rang  ! 

By  her  bed  the  hard-faced  mistress  sat, 
smoothing  the  wrinkled  sheet, 

Peering  into  the  face,  so  helpless,  arid 
feeling  the  ice-cold  feet. 

With  a  vague  remorse   atotiing  for  her 

greed  and  long  abuse, 
By  care  no  longer  heeded  and  pity  too 

late  for  use. 

Up  the  stairs  of  the  garret  softly  the  son 
of  the  mistress  stepped, 

Leaned  over  the  head-board,  covering 
his  face  with  his  hands,  and  wept. 

Outspake  the  mother,  who  watched  him 
sharply,  with  brow  a-frown  : 

"What!  love  you  the  Papist,  the  beg 
gar,  the  charge  of  the  town  ?" 


KING  VOLMER  AND   ELSIE. 


377 


*Be  she  Papist  or  beggar  who  lies  here, 

I  know  and  God  knows 
I  love  her,  and  fain  would  go  with  her 

wherever  she  goes  ! 

"  0  mother  !  that  sweet  face  came  plead 
ing,  for  love  so  athirst. 

You  saw  but  the  town-charge  ;  I  knew 
her  God's  angel  at  first." 

Shaking  her  gray  head,  the  mistress 
hushed  down  a  bitter  cry  ; 

And  awed  by  the  silence  and  shadow  of 
death  drawing  nigh, 

She  murmured  a  psalm  of  the  Bible  ;  but 
closer  the  young  girl  pressed, 

"With  the  last  of  her  life  in  her  fingers, 
the  cross  to  her  breast. 

"  My  son,  come  away,"  cried  the  mother, 

her  voice  cruel  grown. 
"  She  is  joined  to  her  idols,  like  Eph- 

raim  ;  let  her  alone  !  " 

But  he  knelt  with  his  hand  on  her  fore 
head,  his  lips  to  her  ear, 

A.nd  he  called  back  the  soul  that  was  pass 
ing  :  "Marguerite,  do  you  hear  ? " 

She  paused  on  the  threshold  of  Heaven  ; 

love,  pity,  surprise, 
Wistful,  tender,  lit  up  for  an  instant  the 

cloud  of  her  eyes. 

With  his  heart  on  his  lips  he  kissed  her, 
but  never  her  cheek  grew  red, 

And  the  words  the  living  long  for  he 
spake  in  the  ear  of  the  dead. 

And  the  robins  sang  in  the  orchard, 
where  buds  to  blossoms  grew  ; 

Of  the  folded  hands  and  the  still  face 
never  the  robins  knew  ! 


KING  VOLMER  AND  ELSIE. 


AFTER      THE 


DANISH      OF 
WINTER. 


CHRISTIAN 


In  merry  mood   King  Volmer  sat,  for* 

getful  of  his  power, 
As  idle  as  the  Goose  of  Gold  that  brooded 

on  his  tower. 

Out  spake  the  King  to  Henrik,  his  young 

and  faithful  squire  : 
"  Dar'st  trust  thy  little  Elsie,  the  maid 

of  thy  desire  ?  " 
"  Of  all  the  men  in  Denmark  she  lovetb 

only  me  : 
As  true  to  me  is  Elsie  as  thy  Lily  is  to 

thee." 

Loud  laughed   the  king  :    ' '  To-morrow 

shall  bring  another  day,  * 
When  I  myself  will  test  her  ;  she  will 

not  say  me  nay." 
Thereat  the    lords    and  gallants,   that 

round  about  him  stood, 
Wagged  all  their  heads  in  concert  and 

smiled  as  courtiers  should. 

The  gray  lark  sings  o'er  Vordingborg, 
and  on  the  ancient  town 

From  the  tall  tower  of  Valdemar  the 
Golden  Goose  looks  down : 

The  yellow  grain  is  waving  in  the  pleas 
ant  wind  of  morn, 

The  wood  resounds  with  cry  of  hounds 
and  blare  of  hunter's  horn. 

In  the  garden  of  her  father  little  Elsie 

sits  and  spins, 
And,  singing  with  the  early  birds,  her 

daily  task  begins. 
Gay  tulips  bloom  and  sweet  mint  curls 

around  her  garden -bower, 
But  she  is  sweeter  than  the  mint  and 

fairer  than  the  flower. 

About  her  form  her  kirtle   blue   clings 

lovingly,  and,  white 
As   snow,  her  loose   sleeves   only  leave 

her  small,  round  wrists  in  sight ; 
Below  the  modest  petticoat  can  only  half 

conceal 
The  motion  of  the  lightest  foot  that  ever 

turned  a  wheel. 


The  cat   sits  purring  at  her  side,  bees 

hum  in  sunshine  warm  ; 
WHERE,    over  heathen   doom-rings  and    But,  look  !  she  starts,  she  lifts  her  face, 

gray  stones  of  the  Horg,  she  shades  it  with  her  arm. 

In   its   little  Christian  city  stands  the  !     *  A  common       ,      of  Valdemar.  hencc  m 
Church  of  Vordingborg,  ,  sobriquet  Alterday.      ' 


378 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


And,  hark  !  a  train  of  horsemen,  with 

sound  of  dog  and  horn, 
Come    leaping   o'er  the   ditches,    come 

trampling  down  the  corn  ! 

Merrily  rang  the  bridle-reins,  and  scarf 

and  plume  streamed  gay, 
As  fast  beside  her  father's  gate  the  riders 

held  their  way  ; 
And  one  was  brave  in  scarlet  cloak,  with 

golden  spur  on  heel, 
And,  as  he  checked  his  foaming  steed, 

the  maiden  checked  her  wheel. 

"  All  hail  among  thy  roses,  the  fairest 
rose  to  me ! 

For  weary  months  in  secret  my  heart 
has  longed  for  thee  !  " 

What  noble  knight  was  this?  What 
words  for  modest  maiden's  ear? 

She  dropped  a  lowly  courtesy  of  bashful- 
ness  and  fear. 

She  lifted  up  her  spinning-wheel ;    she 

fain  would  seek  the  door, 
Trembling  in  every  limb,  her  cheek  with 

blushes  crimsoned  o'er. 
"  Nay,  fear  me  not,"  the  rider  said,  "  I 

offer  heart  and  hand, 
Bear  witness  these  good  Danish  knights 

who  round  about  me  stand. 

"  I  grant  you  time  to  think  of  this,  to 
answer  as  you  may. 

For  to-morrow,  little  Elsie,  shall  bring 
another  day." 

He  spake  the  old  phrase  slyly  as,  glan 
cing  round  his  train, 

He  saw  his  merry  followers  seek  to  hide 
their  smiles  in  vain. 

"  The  snow  of  pearls  I  '11  scatter  in  your 

curls  of  golden  hair, 
I  '11  line  with  furs  the  velvet  of  the  kirtle 

that  you  wear ; 
All  precious  gems  shall  twine  your  neck  : 

and  in  a  chariot  gay 
You  shall  ride,  my  little  Elsie,  behind 

four  steeds  of  gray. 

"  And  harps  shall  sound,  and  flutes  shall 

play,  and  brazen  lamps  shall  glow  ; 
On  marble  floors  your  feet  shall  weave 

the  dances  to  and  fro. 
At  frosty  eventide   for  us   the  blazing 

hearth  shall  shine, 
While,  at  our  ease,  we  play  at  draughts, 

and  drink  the  blood-red  wine." 


Then  Elsie  raised  her  head  and  met  her 

wooer  face  to  face ; 
A  roguish  smile  shone  in  her  eye  and  on 

her  lip  found  place. 
Back  from  her  low  white  forehead  the 

curls  of  gold  she  threw, 
And  lifted  up  her  eyes  to  his  steady  and 

clear  and  blue. 

"  I  am  a  lowly  peasant,  and  you  a  gal 
lant  knight ; 

I  will  not  trust  a  love  that  soon  may 
cool  and  turn  to  slight. 

If  you  would  wed  me  henceforth  be  a 
peasant,  not  a  lord ; 

I  bid  you  hang  iipon  the  wall  your  tried 
and  trusty  sword." 

"To  please  you,  Elsie,   I  will  lay  keen 

Dynadel  away, 
And  in  its  place  will  swing  the  scythe 

and  mow  your  father's  hay." 
"Nay,   but  your  gallant  scarlet  cloak 

my  eyes  can  never  bear ; 
A  Vadmal  coat,  so  plain  and  gray,  is  all 

that  you  must  wear." 

"Well,  Vadmal  will  I  wear  for  you," 

the  rider  gayly  spoke, 
"  And  on  the  Lord's  high  altar  I  '11  lay 

my  scarlet  cloak." 
"  But  mark,"  she  said,  "  no  stately  horse 

my  peasant  love  must  ride, 
A  yoke  of  steers  before  the  plough  is  all 

that  he  must  guide." 

The  knight  looked  down  upon  his  steed : 

"  Well,  let  him  wander  free: 
No  other  man  must  ride  the  horse  that 

has  been  backed  by  me. 
Henceforth  I  '11  tread  the  furrow  and  to 

my  oxen  talk, 
If  only  little  Elsie  beside  my  plough  will 

walk." 

"You  must  take  from  out  your  cellar 

cask  of  wine  and  flask  and  can ; 
The  homely  mead  I  brew  you  may  serve 

a  peasant-man." 
"Most  willingly,  fair  Elsie,  I  '11  drink 

that  mead  of  thine, 
And  leave  my  minstrel's  thirsty  throat 

to  drain  my  generous  wine." 

"Now  break  your  shield  asunder,  and 

shatter  sign  and  boss, 
Unmeet  for  peasant-wedded  arms,  your 

knightly  knee  across. 


THE  THREE   BELLS. 


379 


« lid  pull  me  down  your  castle  from  top    No  praise  as  yours  so  bravely  rewards 

to  basement  wall,  the  singer's  skill ; 

rind  let  your  plough  trace  furrows  in  the    Thank  God !  of  maids  like  Elsie  the  land 


ruins  of  your  hall !  " 


Then 


smiled    he    with  a  lofty  pride; 

right  well  at  last  he  knew 
The  maiden  of  the  spinning-wheel  was 

to  her  troth-plight  true. 
"Ah,  roguish  little  Elsie  !  you  act  your 

part  full  well : 
You  know  that  I  must  bear  my  shield 

and  in  my  castle  dwell ! 

"The  lions  ramping  on  that  shield  be 
tween  the  hearts  aflame 

Keep  watch  o'er  Denmark's  honor,  and 
guard  her  ancient  name. 

For  know  that  I  am  Volmer;  I  dwell  in 
yonder  towers, 

Who  ploughs  them  ploughs  up  Denmark, 
this  goodly  home  of  ours ! 

4 1  tempt  no  more,  fair  Elsie !  your  heart 

I  know  is  true ; 
Would  God  that  all  our  maidens  were 

good  and  pure  as  you ! 
Well  have  you  pleased  your  monarch, 

and  he  shall  well  repay ; 
God's  peace!  Farewell!    To-morrow  will 

bring  another  day !  " 

He  lifted  up  his  bridle  hand,  he  spurred 

his  good  steed  then, 
And  like  a  whirl-blast  swept  away  with 

all  his  gallant  men. 
Thy  steel   hoofs  beat  the  rocky  path; 

again  on  winds  of  morn 
Vhe  wood  resounds  with  cry  of  hounds 

and  blare  of  hunter's  horn. 


'*  Phou   true   and   ever  faithful ! "  the 

listening  Henrik  cried ; 
And,  leaping  o'er  the  green  hedge,  he 

stood  by  Elsie's  side. 
Noie  saw  the  fond   embracing,    save, 

shining  from  afar, 
'i^he  Golden  Goose  that  watched  them 

from  the  tower  of  Valdemar. 


0  darling  girls  of  Denmark !  of  all  the 

flowers  that  throng 
U  ^r  vales  of  spring  the  fairest   T  sing  for  i 

you  my  song  I 


has  plenty  still ! 


THE  THREE  BELLS. 

BENEATH  the  low-hung  night  cloud 
That  raked  her  splintering  mast 

The  good  ship  settled  slowly, 
The  cruel  leak  gained  fast. 

Over  the  awful  ocean 

Her  signal  guns  pealed  out. 

Dear  God !  was  that  thy  answer 
From  the  horror  round  about  ? 

A  voice  came  down  the  wild  wind, 
"  Ho !  ship  ahoy !  "  its  cry : 

"  Our  stout  Three  Bells  of  Glasgow 
Shall  lay  till  daylight  by  I  " 

Hour  after  hour  crept  slowly, 
Yet  on  the  heaving  swells 

Tossed  up  and  down  the  ship-lights. 
The  lights  of  the  Three  Bells ! 

And  ship  to  ship  made  signals, 
Man  answered  back  to  man, 

While  oft,  to  cheer  and  hearten, 
The  Three  Bells  nearer  ran ; 

And  the  captain  from  her  taffrail 
Sent  down  his  hopeful  cry. 

"  Take  heart !  Hold  on  !  "  he  shoutt/d 
"  The  Three  Bells  shall  lay  by ! ' 

All  night  across  the  waters 
The  tossing  lights  shone  «;lear; 

All  night  from  reeling  taffrail 
The  Three  Bells  sent  her  cheer. 

And  when  the  dreary  watches 
Of  storm  and  darkness  passed, 

Just  as  the  wreck  lurched  under, 
All  souls  were  saved  at  last. 

Sail  on,  Three  Bells,  forever, 

In  grateful  memory  sail ! 
Ring  on,  Three  Bells  of  rescue, 

Above  the  wave  and  gale ! 

Type  of  the  Love  eternal, 

Repeat  the  Master's  cry, 
A.S  tossing  through  our  darkness 

The  lights  of  God  draw  nigh  f 


380 


HAZEL   BLOSSOMS. 


HAZEL   BLOSSOMS. 

NOTE.  —  I  have  ventured,  in  compliance  with  the  desire  of  dear  friends  of  my  beloved 
sister  ELIZABETH  H.  WHITTIER,  to  add  to  this  little  volume  the  few  poetical  pieces  which 
she  left  behind  her.  As  she  was  very  distrustful  of  her  own  powers,  and  altogether  with 
out  ambition  for  literary  distinction,  she  shunned  everything  like  publicity,  arid  found 
far  greater  happiness  in  generous  appreciation  of  the  gifts  of  her  friends  than  in  the 
cultivation  of  her  own.  Yet  it  has  always  seemed  to  me,  that  had  her  health,  sense 
of  duty  and  fitness,  and  her  extreme  self-distrust  permitted,  she  might  have  taken  a 
high  place  among  lyrical  singers.  These  poems,  with  perhaps  two  or  three  exceptions, 
afford  but  slight  indications  of  the  inward  life  of  the  writer,  who  had  an  almost  morbid 
dread  of  spiritual  and  intellectual  egotism,  or  of  her  tenderness  of  sympathy,  chastened 
mirthfulness,  and  pleasant  play  of  thought  and  fancy,  when  her  shy,  beautiful  soul 
opened  like  a  flower  in  the  warmth  of  social  communion.  In  the  lines  on  Dr.  Kane 
her  friends  will  see  something  of  her  fine  individuality,  —  the  rare  mingling  of  delicacy 
and  intensity  of  feeling  which  made  her  dear  to  them.  This  little  poem  reached  Cuba 
while  the  great  explorer  lay  on  his  death- bed,  and  we  are  told  that  he  listened  with 
grateful  tears  while  it  was  read  to  him  by  his  mother. 

I  am  tempted  to  say  more,  but  I  write  as  under  the  eye  of  her  who,  while  with  us, 
shrank  with  painful  deprecation  from  the  praise  or  mention  of  performances  which 
seemed  so  far  below  her  ideal  of  excellence.  To  those  who  best  knew  her,  the  beloved 
circle  of  her  intimate  friends,  I  dedicate  this  slight  memorial. 

J.   G.   W. 

AMESBURY,  9th  mo.,  1874. 


THE  summer  warmth  has  left  the  sky, 
The  summer  songs  have  died  away ; 
And,  withered,  in  the  footpaths  lie 
The  fallen  leaves,  but  yesterday 
With  ruby  and  with  topaz  gay. 

The  grass  is  browning  on  the  hills  ; 
No  pale,  belated  flowers  recall 
The  astral  fringes  of  the  rills, 
And  drearily  the  dead  vines  fall, 
Frost-blackened,  from  the  roadside  wall. 

Yet  through  the  gray  and  sombre  wood, 
Against  the  dusk  of  fir  and  pine, 
Last  of  their  floral  sisterhood, 
The  hazel's  yellow  blossoms  shine, 
The  tawny  gold  of  Afric's  mine  ! 

Small  beauty  hath  my  unsung  flower, 
For  spring  to  own  or  summer  hail ; 
But,  in  the  season's  saddest  hour, 
To  skies  that  weep  and  winds  that  wail 
Its  glad  surprisals  never  fail. 

0  days  grown  cold  !     0  life  grown  old  ! 
No  rose  of  June  may  bloom  again  ; 
But,  like  the  hazel's  twisted  gold, 


Through  early  frost  and  latter  rain 
Shall  hints  of  summer-time  remain. 

And  as  within  the  hazel's  bough 

A  gift  of  mystic  virtue  dwells, 

That  points  to  golden  ores  below, 

And  in  dry  desert  places  tells 

Where  flow  unseen  the  cool,  sweet  wells, 

So,  in  the  wise  Diviner's  hand, 
Be  mine  the  hazel's  grateful  part 
To  feel,  beneath  a  thirsty  land, 
The  living  waters  thrill  and  start, 
The  beating  of  the  rivulet's  heart  ! 

Sufficeth  me  the  gift  to  light 
With  latest  bloom  the  dark,  cold  days  ; 
To  call  some  hidden  spring  to  sight 
That,  in  these  dry  and  dusty  ways, 
Shall  sing  its  pleasant  song  of  praise. 

0  Love  !  the  hazel-wand  may  fail, 
But  thou  canst  lend  the  surer  spell, 
That,  passing  over  Baca's  vale, 
Repeats  the  old-tirne  miracle, 
And  makes  the  desert-land  a  well. 


SUMNEK. 


381 


SUMNER. 


"  I  am  not  one  who  has  disgraced  beauty  of  sentiment  by  deformity  of  conduct,  or  the  maxims 
of  a  freeman  by  the  actions  of  a  slave  ;  but,  by  the  grace  of  God,  I  have  kept  my  life  unsullied." 
—  MILTON'S  Defence  of  the  People  of  England. 


0  MOTHER  STATE  !  —  the  winds  of  March 
Blew  chill  o'er  Auburn's  Field  of  God, 

Where,  slow,  beneath  a  leaden  arch 
Of  sky,  thy  mourning  children  trod. 

And  now,  with  all  thy  woods  in  leaf, 
Thy  fields  in  flower,  beside  thy  dead 

Thou  sittest,  in  thy  robes  of  grief, 
A  Rachel  yet  uncomforted  ! 

A.nd  once  again  the  organ  swells, 
Once  more  the  flag  is  half-way  hung, 

And  yet  again  the  mournful  bells 
In  all  thy  steeple-towers  are  rung. 

And  I,  obedient  to  thy  will, 
Have  come  a  simple  wreath  to  lay, 

, .  uperfluous,  on  a  grave  that  still 
Is  sweet  with  all  the  flowers  of  May. 

1  take,  with  awe,  the  task  assigned  ; 

It  may  be  that  my  friend  might  miss, 
In  his  new  sphere  of  heart  and  mind, 
Some  token  from  my  hand  in  this. 

By  many  a  tender  memory  moved, 
Along  the  past  my  thought  I  send  ; 

The  record  of  the  cause  he  loved 
Is  the  best  record  of  its  friend. 

No  trumpet  sounded  in  his  ear, 
He  saw  not  Sinai's  cloud  and  flame, 

But  never  yet  to  Hebrew  seer 
A  clearer  voice  of  duty  came. 

God  said  :  "Break  thou  these  yokes ;  undo 
These  heavy  burdens.     I  ordain 

A  work  to  last  thy  whole  life  through, 
A  ministry  of  strife  and  pain. 

"  Forego  thy  dreams  of  lettered  ease, 
Put  thou  the  scholar's  promise  by, 

The  rights  of  man  are  more  than  these." 
He  heard,  and  answered :  "Here  am  I ! " 

He  set  his  face  against  the  blast, 
His  feet  against  the  flinty  shard, 


Till  the  hard  service  grew,  at  last, 
Its  own  exceeding  great  reward. 

Lifted  like  Saul's  above  the  crowd, 
Upon  his  kingly  forehead  fell 

The  first,  sharp  bolt  of  Slavery's  cloud, 
Launched  at  the  truth  he  urged  so  well. 

Ah  !  never  yet,  at  rack  or  stake, 

Was  sorer  loss  made  Freedom's  gain, 

Than  his,  who  suffered  for  her  sake 
The  beak-torn  Titan's  lingering  pain  ! 

The  fixed  star  of  his  faith,  through  all 
Loss,  doubt,  and  peril,  shone  the  same  ; 

As  through  a  night  of  storm,  some  tall, 
Strong  lighthouse  lifts  its  steady  flame. 

Beyond  the  dust  and  smoke  he  saw 
The  sheaves   of  freedom's   large   in 
crease, 

The  holy  fanes  of  equal  law, 
The  New  Jerusalem  of  peace. 

The  weak  might    fear,    the  worldling 
mock, 

The  faint  and  blind  of  heart  regret ; 
All  knew  at  last  th'  eternal  rock 

On  which  his  forward  feet  were  set. 

The  subtlest  scheme  of  compromise 
Was  folly  to  his  purpose  bold  ; 

The  strongest  mesh  of  party  lies 
Weak  to  the  simplest  truth  he  told. 

One  language  held  his  heart  and  lip, 
Straight  onward  to  his  goal  he  trod, 

And  proved  the  highest  statesmanship 
Obedience  to  the  voice  of  God. 

No  wail  was  in  his  voice,  —  none  heard. 

When  treason's  storm-cloud  blackest 

grew, 
The  weakness  of  a  doubtful  word  ; 

His  duty,  and  the  end,  he  knew. 

The  first  to  smite,  the  first  to  spare  ; 
When  once  the  hostile  ensigns  fell, 


382 


HAZEL   BLOSSOMS. 


He  stretched  out  hands  of  generous  care 
To  lift  the  foe  he  fought  so  well. 

For  there  was  nothing  base  or  small 
Or  craven  in  his  soul's  broad  plan  ; 

Forgiving  all  things  personal, 
He  hated  only  wrong  to  man. 

The  old  traditions  of  his  State, 

The  memories  of  her  great  and  good, 

Took  from  his  life  a  fresher  date, 
And  in  himself  embodied  stood. 

How  felt  the  greed  of  gold  and  place, 
The    venal   crew  that   schemed   and 
planned, 

The  fine  scorn  of  that  haughty  face, 
The  spurning  of  that  bribeless  hand  ! 

If  than  Rome's  tribunes  statelier 
He  wore  his  senatorial  robe, 

His  lofty  port  was  all  for  her, 

The  one  dear  spot  on  all  the  globe. 

If  to  the  master's  plea  he  gave 

The  vast  contempt  his  manhood  felt, 

He  saw  a  brother  in  the  slave,  — 
"With  man  as  equal  man  he  dealt. 

Proud  was  he  ?  If  his  presence  kept 
Its  grandeur  wheresoe'er  he  trod, 

As  if  from  Plutarch's  gallery  stepped 
The  hero  and  the  demigod, 

None  failed,  at  least,  to  reach  his  ear, 
Nor  want  nor  woe  appealed  in  vain  ; 

The  homesick  soldier  knew  his  cheer, 
And  blessed  him   from  his  ward  of 
pain. 

Safely  his  dearest  friends  may  own 
The  slight  defects  he  never  hid, 

The  surface-blemish  in  the  stone 
Of  the  tall,  stately  pyramid. 

Suffice  it  that  he  never  brought 
His  conscience  to  the  public  mart ; 

But  lived  himself  the  truth  he  taught, 
White-souled,  clean-handed,  pure  of 
heart. 

What  if  he  felt  the  natural  pride 
Of  power  in  noble  use,  too  true 

With  thin  humilities  to  hide 

The  work  he  did,  the  lore  he  knew  ? 

Was  he  not  just  ?  Was  any  wronged 
By  that  assured  self- estimate  ? 


He  took  but  what  to  him  belonged, 
Unenvious  of  another's  state. 

Well  might  he  heed  the  words  he  spake, 
And  scan  with  care  the  written  page 

Through  which  he  still  shall  warm  ;m«l 

wake 
The  hearts  of  men  from  age  to  age. 

Ah  !  who  shall  blame  him  now  because 
He  solaced  thus  his  hours  of  pain  ! 

Should  not  the  o'erworn  thresher  pause, 
And  hold  to  light  his  golden  grain  ? 

No  sense  of  humor  dropped  its  oil 
On  the  hard  ways  his  purpose  went ; 

Small  play  of  fancy  lightened  toil ; 
He  spake  alone  the  thing  he  meant. 

He  loved  his  books,  the  Art  that  hints 
A  beauty  veiled  behind  its  own, 

The  graver's  line,  the  pencil's  tints, 
The  chisel's  shape  evoked  from  stone. 

He  cherished,  void  of  selfish  ends, 
The  social  courtesies  that  bless 

And  sweeten  life,  and  loved  his  friends 
AVith  most  unworldly  tenderness. 

But  still  his  tired  eyes  rarely  learned 
The  glad  relief  by  Nature  brought ; 

Her  mountain  ranges  never  turned 
His  current  of  persistent  thought. 

The  sea  rolled  chorus  to  his  speech 
Three-banked  like  Latium's  tall  tri 
reme, 
With   laboring   oars ;    the     grove    and 

beach 
Were  Forum  and  the  Academe. 

The  sensuous  joy  from  all  things  fair 
His  strenuous  bent  of  soul  repressed, 

And  left  from  youth  to  silvered  hair 
Few  hours  for  pleasure,  none  for  rest. 

For  all  his  life  was  poor  without, 
0  Nature,  make  the  last  amends  ! 

Train  all  thy  flowers  his  grave  about, 
And    make    thy    singing-birds    his 
friends  ! 

Revive  again,  thou  summer  rain, 
The  broken  turf  upon  his  bed ! 

Breathe,    summer  wind,  thy  tenderest 

strain 
Of  low,  sweet  music  overhead  ! 


THE   PRAYER   OF   AGASSIZ. 


383 


With  calm  and  beauty  symbolize 
The  peace  which  follows  long  annoy, 

And  lend  our  earth-bent,  mourning  eyes 
Some  hint  of  his  diviner  joy. 

For  safe  with  right  and  truth  he  is, 
As  God  lives  lie  must  live  alway  ; 

There  is  no  end  for  souls  like  his, 
No  night  for  children  of  the  day  ! 

Nor  cant  nor  poor  solicitudes 

Made  weak  his  life's  great  argument ; 
Small  leisure  his  for  frames  and  moods 

Who  followed  Duty  where  she  went. 

The  broad,  fair  fields  of  God  he  saw 
Beyond  the  bigot's  narrow  bound  ; 

The  truths  he  moulded  into  law 
In  Christ's  beatitudes  he  found. 

His  State-craft  was  the  Golden  Rule, 
His  right  of  vote  a  sacred  trust ; 

Clear,  over  threat  and  ridicule, 

All  heard  his  challenge :  "Is  it  just?" 

And  when  the  hour  supreme  had  come, 
Not  for  himself  a  thought  he  gave  ; 

In  that  last  pang  of  martyrdom, 

His  care  was  for  the  half-freed  slave. 

Not  vainly  dusky  hands  upbore, 

In  prayer,  the  passing  soul  to  heaven 


Whose  mercy  to  His  suffering  poor 
Was  service  to  the  Master  given. 

Long  shall  the  good  State's  annals  tell, 
Her  children's  children  long  be  taught, 

How,  praised  or  blamed,  he  guarded  well 
The   trust   he   neither  shunned    nor 
sought. 

If  for  one  moment  turned  thy  face, 
O  Mother,  from  thy  son,  not  long 

He  waited  calmly  in  his  place 

The  sure  remorse  which  follows  wrong. 

Forgiven  be  the  State  he  loved 

The  one  brief  lapse,  the  single  blot ; 

Forgotten  be  the  stain  removed, 
Her  righted  record  shows  it  not ! 

The  lifted  sword  above  her  shield 

With  jealous  care  shall  guard  his  fame  > 

The  pine-tree  on  her  ancient  field 
To  all  the  winds  shall  speak  his  name. 

The  marble  image  of  her  son 

Her  loving  hands  shall  yearly  crown, 
And  from  her  pictured  Pantheon 

His  grand,  majestic  face  look  down. 

0  State  so  passing  rich  before, 
Whonow  shall  doubtthyhighestclaim? 

The  world  that  counts  thy  jewels  o'er 
Shall  longest  pause  at  SUMNEH'S  name  ! 


HAZEL    BLOSSOMS. 


THE  PRAYER  OF  AGASSIZ. 

ON  the  isle  of  Penikese, 

Ringed  about  by  sapphire  seas, 

Fanned  by  breezes  salt  and  cool, 

Stood  the  Master  with  his  school. 

Over  sails  that  not  in  vain 

Wooed  the  west-wind's  steady  strain, 

Line  of  coast  that  low  and  far 

Stretched  its  undulating  bar, 

Wings  aslant  along  the  rim 

Of  the  waves  they  stooped  to  skim, 

Rock  and  isle  and  glistening  bay, 

Fell  the  beautiful  white  day. 

Said  the  Master  to  the  youth  : 

"  We  have  come  in  search  of  truth, 


Trying  with  uncertain  key 

Door  by  door  of  mystery  ; 

We  are  reaching,  through  His  laws, 

To  the  garment-hem  of  Cause, 

Him,  the  endless,  unbegun, 

The  Unnamable,  the  One 

Light  of  all  our  light  the  Source, 

Life  of  life,  and  Force  of  force. 

As  with  fingers  of  the  blind, 

We  are  groping  here  to  find 

What  the  hieroglyphics  mean 

Of  the  Unseen  in  the  seen, 

What  the  Thought  which  underlies 

Nature's  masking  and  disguise, 

What  it  is  that  hides  beneath 

Blight  and  bloom  and  birth  and  death. 


384 


HAZEL  BLOSSOMS. 


By  past  efforts  unavailing, 
Doubt  and  error,  loss  and  failing, 
Of  our  weakness  made  aware, 
On  the  threshold  of  our  task 
Let  us  light  and  guidance  ask, 
Let  us  pause  in  silent  prayer !  " 

Then  the  Master  in  his  place 
Bowed  his  head  a  little  space, 
And  the  leaves  by  soft  airs  stirred, 
Lapse  of  wave  and  cry  of  bird 
Left  the  solemn  hush  unbroken 
Of  that  wordless  prayer  unspoken, 
While  its  wish,  on  earth  unsaid, 
Rose  to  heaven  interpreted. 
As,  in  life's  best  hours,  we  hear 
By  the  spirit's  finer  ear 
His  low  voice  within  us,  thus 
The  All- Father  heareth  us  ; 
And  his  holy  ear  we  pain 
With  our  noisy  words  and  vain. 
Not  for  Him  our  violence 
Storming  at  the  gates  of  sense, 
His  the  primal  language,  his 
The  eternal  silences ! 

Even  the  careless  heart  was  moved, 
And  the  doubting  gave  assent, 
With  a  gesture  reverent, 
To  the  Master  well-beloved. 
As  thin  mists  are  glorified 
By  the  light  they  cannot  hide, 
All  who  gazed  upon  him  saw, 
Through  its  veil  of  tender  awe, 
How  his  face  was  still  uplit 
By  the  old  sweet  look  of  it, 
Hopeful,  trustful,  full  of  cheer, 
And  the  love  that  casts  out  fear. 
Who  the  secret  may  declare 
Of  that  brief,  unuttered  prayer  ? 
Did  the  shade  before  him  come 
Of  th'  inevitable  doom, 
Of  the  end  of  earth  so  near, 
And  Eternity's  new  year  ? 

In  the  lap  of  sheltering  seas 
Rests  the  isle  of  Penikese  ; 
But  the  lord  of  the  domain 
Comes  not  to  his  own  again  : 
Where  the  eyes  that  follow  fail, 
On  a  vaster  sea  his  sail 
Drifts  beyond  our  beck  and  hail. 
Other  lips  within  its  bound 
Shall  the  laws  of  life  expound  ; 
Other  eyes  from  rock  and  shell 
Read  the  world's  old  riddles  well : 
But  when  breezes  light  and  bland 


Blow  from  Summer's  blossomed  land, 
When  the  air  is  glad  with  wings, 
And  the  blithe  song-sparrow  sings, 
Many  an  eye  with  his  still  face 
Shall  the  living  ones  displace, 
Many  an  ear  the  word  shall  seek 
He  alone  could  fitly  speak. 
And  one  name  forevermore 
Shall  be  uttered  o'er  and  o'er 
By  the  waves  that  kiss  the  shore, 
By  the  curlew's  whistle  sent 
Down  the  cool,  sea-scented  air; 
In  all  voices  known  to  her, 
Nature  owns  her  worshipper, 
Half  in  triumph,  half  lament. 
Thither  Love  shall  tearful  turn, 
Friendship  pause  uncovered  there, 
And  the  wisest  reverence  learn 
From  the  Master's  silent  prayer. 


THE   FRIEND'S  BURIAL. 

MY  thoughts  are  all  in  yonder  town, 
Where,  wept  by  many  tears, 

To-day  my  mother's  friend  lays  down 
The  burden  of  her  years. 

True  as  in  life,  no  poor  disguise 

Of  death  with  her  is  seen, 
And  on  her  simple  casket  lies 

No  wreath  of  bloom  and  green. 

0,  not  for  her  the  florist's  art, 
The  mocking  weeds  of  woe, 

Dear  memories  in  each  mourner's  heart 
Like  heaven's  white  lilies  blow. 

And  all  about  the  softening  air 
Of  new-born  sweetness  tells, 

And  the  ungathered  May-flowers  wear 
The  tints  of  ocean  shells. 

The  old,  assuring  miracle 

Is  fresh  as  heretofore ; 
And  earth  takes  up  its  parable 

Of  life  from  death  once  more. 

Here  organ-swell  and  church-bell  toll 
Methinks  but  discord  were, — 

The  prayerful  silence  of  the  soul 
Is  best  befitting  her. 

No  sound  should  break  the  quietude 

Alike  of  earth  and  sky  ;  — 
0  wandering  wind  in  Seabrook  wood, 

Breathe  but  a  half-heard  sigh  ! 


JOHN   UNDERBILL. 


385 


Sing  softly,  spring-bird,  for  her  sake  ; 

And  thou  not  distant  sea, 
Lapse  lightly  as  if  Jesus  spake, 

And  thou  wert  Galilee  ! 

For  all  her  quiet  life  flowed  on 
As  meadow  streamlets  flow, 

Where  fresher  green  reveals  alone 
The  noiseless  ways  they  go. 

From  her  loved  place  of  prayer  I  see 
The  plain-robed  mourners  pass, 

With  slow  feet  treading  reverently 
The  graveyard's  springing  grass. 

Make  room,  0  mourning  ones,  for  me, 
Where,  like  the  friends  of  Paul, 

That  you  no  more  her  face  shall  see 
You  sorrow  most  of  all. 

Her  path  shall  brighten  more  and  more 

Unto  the  perfect  day ; 
She  cannot  fail  of  peace  who  bore 

Such  peace  with  her  away. 

0  sweet,  calm  face  that  seemed  to  wear 

The  look  of  sins  forgiven  ! 
0  voice  of  prayer  that  seemed  to  bear 

Our  own  needs  up  to  heaven  ! 

How  reverent  in  our  midst  she  stood, 

Or  knelt  in  grateful  praise  ! 
What  grace  of  Christian  womanhood 

Was  in  her  household  ways  ! 

For  still  her  holy  living  meant 

No  duty  left  undone'; 
The  heavenly  and  the  human  blent 

Their  kindred  loves  in  one. 

And  if  her  life  small  leisure  found 

For  feasting  ear  and  eye, 
And  Pleasure,  on  her  daily  round, 

She  passed  unpausing  by, 

Yet  with  her  went  a  secret  sense 
Of  all  things  sweet  and  fair, 

And  Beauty's  gracious  providence 
Refreshed  her  unaware. 

She  kept  her  line  of  rectitude 
With  love's  unconscious  ease  ; 

Her  kindly  instincts  understood 
All  gentle  courtesies. 

An  inborn  charm  of  graciousness 
Made  sweet  her  smile  and  to*>e, 
25 


And  glorified  her  farm- wife  dress 
With  beauty  not  its  own. 

The  dear  Lord's  best  interpreters 

Are  humble  human  souls  ; 
The  Gospel  of  a  life  like  hers 

Is  more  than  books  or  scrolls. 

From  scheme  and  creed  the  light  goes 
out, 

The  saintly  fact  survives  ; 
The  blessed  Master  none  can  doubt 

Revealed  in  holy  lives. 


JOHN  UNDERBILL. 

A  SCORE  of  years  had  come  and  gone 
Since  the  Pilgrims  landed  on  Plymouth 

stone, 

When  Captain  Underbill,  bearing  scars 
From  Indian  ambush  and  Flemish  wars, 
Left  three-hilled  Boston  and  wandered 

down, 
East  by  north,  to  Cocheco  town. 

With    Vane  the    younger,  in   counsel 

sweet 

He  had  sat  at  Anna  Hutchinson's  feet, 
And,  when  the  bolt  of  banishment  fell 
On  the  head  of  his  saintly  oracle, 
He  had  shared  her  ill  as  her  good  report, 
And  braved  the  wrath  of  the  General 

Court. 

He  shook  from  his  feet  as  he  rode  away 
The  dust  of  the  Massachusetts  Bay. 
The  world   might  bless  and  the  world 

might  ban, 

What  did  it  matter  the  perfect  man, 
To   whom   the  freedom    of    earth   was 

given, 
Proof  against  sin,  and  sure  of  heaven  ? 

He  cheered  his  heart  as  he  rode  along 
With  screed  of  Scripture  and  holy  song, 
Or  thought  how  he  rode  with  his  lances 

free 
By  the  Lower  Rhine  and  the  Zuyder- 

Zee, 
Till  his  wood-path  grew  to   a  trodden 

road, 
And    Hilton    Point    in    the    distance 

showed. 


386 


HAZEL  BLOSSOMS. 


He  saw  the  church  with  the  block 
house  nigh, 

The  two  fair  rivers,  the  flakes  thereby, 

And,  tacking  to  windward,  low  and 
crank, 

The  little  shallop  from  Strawberry 
Bank; 

And  he  rose  in  his  stirrups  and  looked 
abroad 

Over  land  and  water,  and  praised  the 
Lord. 

Goodly  and  stately  and  grave  to  see, 
Into  the  clearing's  space  rode  he, 
With  the  sun  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword 

in  sheath, 

And  his  silver  buckles   and  spurs  be 
neath, 
And  the  settlers  welcomed  him,  one  and 

all, 
From  swift  Quampeagan  to  Gonic  Fall. 

And  he  said  to  the  elders  :  "  Lo,  I  come 
As  the  way  seemed  open  to  seek  a  home. 
Somewhat  the  Lord  hath  wrought  by 

my  hands 

In  the  Narragansett  and  Netherlands, 
And  if  here  ye  have  work  for  a  Chris 
tian  man, 
I  will  tarry,  and  serve  ye  as  best  I  can. 

"I  boast  not  of  gifts,  but  fain  would 

own 

The  wonderful  favor  God  hath  shown, 
The  special  mercy  vouchsafed  one  day 
On  the  shore  of  Narragansett  Bay, 
As  I  sat,  with  my  pipe,  from  the  camp 

aside, 
And  mused  like  Isaac  at  eventide. 

' '  A  sudden  sweetness  of  peace  I  found, 
A  garment  of  gladness  wrapped  me 

round ; 

I  felt  from  the  law  of  works  released, 
The  strife  of  the  flesh  and  spirit  ceased, 
My  faith  to  a  full  assurance  grew, 
And  all  I  had  hoped  for  myself  I  knew. 

"Now,  as  God  appointeth,  I  keep  my 

way, 

I  shall  not  stumble,  I  shall  not  stray  ; 
He  hath  taken  away  my  fig-leaf  dress, 
I  wear  the  robe  of  his  righteousness ; 
And  the  shafts  of  Satan  110  more  avail 
Than  Pequot  arrows  on  Christian  mail.' 


'Tarry  with  us,"  the  settlers  cried, 

'  Thou  man  of.  God,  as  our  ruler  and 

guide." 

And  Captain  Underbill  bowed  his  head. 
'  The  will  of  the  Lord  be  done  ! "  he  said. 
A.nd  the  morrow  beheld  him  sitting  down 
[n  the  ruler's  seat  in  Cocheco  town. 

And  he  judged  therein  as  a  just  man 

should  ; 
His  words  were  wise  and  his  rule  was 

good  ; 

He  coveted  not  his  neighbor's  land, 
From  the  holding  of  bribes  he  shook  his 

hand ; 
And  through  the  camps  of  the  heathen 

ran 
A  wholesome  fear  of  the  valiant  man. 

But  the  heart  is  deceitful,  the  good  Book 

saith, 

And  life  hath  ever  a  savor  of  death. 
Through  hymns  of  triumph  the  tempter 

calls, 

And  whoso  thinketh  he  standeth  falls. 
Alas  !  ere  their  round  the  seasons  ran, 
There  was  grief  in  the  soul  of  the  saintly 


The  tempter's  arrows  that  rarely  fail 
Had  found  the  joints  of  his  spiritual  mail ; 
And  men  took  note  of  his  gloomy  air, 
The  shame  in  his  eye,  the  halt  in  his 

prayer, 

The  signs  of  a  battle  lost  within, 
The  pain  of  a  soul  in  the  coils  of  sin. 

Then  a  whisper  of  scandal  linked  his 

name 

With  broken  vows  and  a  life  of  blame ; 
And  the  people  looked  askance  on  him 
As  he  walked  among  them  sullen  and 

grim, 

111  at  ease,  and  bitter  of  word, 
And  prompt  of  quarrel  with  hand  or 

sword. 

None  knew  how,  with  prayer  and  fasting 

still, 

He  strove  in  the  bonds  of  his  evil  will ; 
But  he  shook  himself  like  Samson  at 

length, 

And  girded  anew  his  loins  of  strength, 
And  bade  the  crier  go  up  and  down 
And  call  together  the  wondering  town. 


IN  QUEST. 


387 


Jeer  and  murmur  and  shaking  of  head 
Ceased  as  he  rose  in  his  place  and  said  : 
"Men,  brethren,  and  fathers,  well  ye 

know 

How  I  came  among  you  a  year  ago, 
Strong  in  the  faith  that  my  soul  was 

freed 
From  sin  of  feeling,  or  thought,  or  deed. 

"  I  have  sinned,  I  own  it  with  grief  and 

shame, 

But  not  with  a  lie  on  my  lips  I  came. 
In  my  blindness  I  verily  thought  my 

heart 

Swept  and  garnished  in  every  part. 
He  chargeth  His  angels  with  folly;  He 

sees 
The  heavens  unclean.    Was  I  more  than 

these  ? 

"  I  urge  no  plea.     At  your  feet  I  lay 
The  trust  you  gave  me,  and  go  my  way. 
Hate  me  or  pity  me,  as  you  will, 
The  Lord  will  have  mercy  on  sinners 

still ; 

And  I,  who  am  chiefest,  say  to  all, 
Watch  and  pray,  lest  ye  also  fall." 

No  voice  made  answer  :  a  sob  so  low 
That  only  his  quickened  ear  could  know 
Smote  his  heart  with  a  bitter  pain, 
As  into  the  forest  he  rode  again, 
And  the  veil  of  its  oaken  leaves  shut 

down 
On  his  latest  glimpse  of  Cocheco  town. 

Crystal-clear  on  the  man  of  sin 

The  streams  flashed  up,   and  the  sky 

shone  in ; 

On  his  cheek  of  fever  the  cool  wind  blew, 
The  leaves  dropped  on  him  their  tears 

of  dew, 
And  angels  of  God,  in  the  pure,  sweet 

guise 

Of  flowers,  looked  on  him  with  sad  sur 
prise. 

Was  his  ear  at  fault  that  brook  and 

breeze 

Sang  in  their  saddest  of  minor  keys  ? 
What  was  it  the  mournful  wood-thrush 

said? 

What  whispered  the  pine-trees  overhead . 
Did  he  hear  the  Voice  on  his  lonely  way 
That  Adam  heard  in  the  cool  of  day  ? 

Into  the  desert  alone  rode  he, 
Alone  with  the  Infinite  Purity ; 


And,  bowing  his  soul  to  its  tender  rebuke, 

As  Peter  did  to  the  Master's  look, 

He  measured  his  path  with  prayers  of 

pain 
For  peace  with  God  and  nature  again. 

And  in  after  years  to  Cocheco  came 
The  bruit  of  a  once  familiar  name  ; 
How  among  the  Dutch  of  New  Nether 
lands, 

From  wild  Danskamer  to  Haarlem  sands, 
A  penitent  soldier  preached  the  Word, 
And  smote  the  heathen  with  Gideon's 
sword ! 

And  the  heart  of  Boston  was  glad  to  hear 
How  he  harried  the  foe  on  the  long 

frontier, 
And  heaped  on  the  land  against  him 

barred 

The  coals  of  his  generous  watch  and  ward. 
Frailest  and  bravest !  the  Bay  State  still 
Counts  with  her  worthies  John  Underbill. 


IN   QUEST. 

HAVE  I  not  voyaged,  friend  beloved, 
with  thee 

On  the  great  waters  of  the  unsounded 
sea, 

Momently  listening  with  suspended  oar 

For  the  low  rote  of  waves  upon  a  shore 

Changeless  as  heaven,  where  never  fog- 
cloud  drifts 

Over  its  windless  woods,  nor  mirage  lifts 

The  steadfast  hills;  where  never  birds 
of  doubt 

Sin^pto  mislead,  and  every  dream  dies 
out, 

And  the  dark  riddles  which  perplex  us 
here 

In  the  sharp  sol  vent  of  its  light  are  clear? 

Thou  knowest  how  vain  our  quest ;  how, 
soon  or  late, 

The  baffling  tides  and  circles  of  debate 

Swept  back  our  bark  unto  its  starting- 
place, 

Where,  looking  forth  upon  the  blank, 
gray  space, 

And  roundabout  us  seeing,  with  sad  eyes, 

The  same  old  difficult  hills  and  cloud- 
cold  skies, 

We  said  :  ' '  This  outward  search  availeth 
not 


388 


HAZEL   BLOSSOMS. 


To  find  Him.     He  is  farther  than  we 

thought, 

Or,  haply,  nearer.     To  this  very  spot 
Whereon  we  wait,  this  commonplace  of 

home, 

As  to  the  well  of  Jacob,  He  may  come 
And  tell  us  all  things."     As  I  listened 

there, 

Through  the  expectant  silences  of  prayer, 
Somewhat  I  seemed  to  hear,  which  hath 

to  me 
Been  hope,  strength,  comfort,  and  I  give 

it  thee. 

"The  riddle  of  the  world  is  understood 
Only  by  him  who  feels  that  God  is  good, 
As  only  he  can  feel  who  makes  his  love 
The  ladder  of  his  faith,  and  climbs  above 
On  th'  rounds  of  his  best  instincts; 

draws  no  line 

Between  mere  human  goodness  and  di 
vine, 

But,  judging  God  by  what  in  him  is  best, 
With  a  child's  trust  leans  on  a  Father's 

breast, 

And  hears  unmoved  the  old  creeds  bab 
ble  still 
Of  kingly  power  and  dread  caprice  of 

will, 

Chary  of  blessing,  prodigal  of  curse. 
The  pitiless  doomsman  of  the  universe. 
Can  Hatred  ask  for  love  ?     Can  Selfish 
ness 

Invite  to  self-denial  ?     Is  He  less 
Than  man  in  kindly  dealing  ?     Can  He 

break 

His  own  great  law  of  fatherhood,  forsake 
And  curse  His  children  ?  Not  for  earth 

and  heaven 

Can  separate  tables  of  the  law  be  given. 
No  rule  can  bind  which  He  himserP  de 
nies  ; 
The  truths  of  time  are  not  eternal  lies." 

So  heard  I  ;   and  the  chaos  round  me 

spread 
To  light  and  order  grew;  and,  "Lord," 

I  said, 
"Our  sins  are  our  tormentors,  worst  of 

all 
Felt  in  distrustful  shame  that  dares  not 

call 

Upon  Thee  as  our  Father.  We  have  set 
A  strange  god  up,  but  Thou  remain^st 

yet. 

All  that  I  feel  of  pity  Thou  hast  known 
Before  I  was ;  my  best  is  all  Thy  oVi. 


From  Thy  great  heart  of  goodness  mine 

but  drew 
Wishes  and  prayers ;  but  Thou,  0  Lord, 

wilt  do, 

In  Thy  own  time,  by  ways  I  cannot  see, 
All  that  I  feel  when  I  am  nearest  Thee ! " 


A  SEA  DREAM. 

WE  saw  the  slow  tides  go  and  come, 
The  curving  surf-lines  lightly  drawn, 

The   gray   rocks   touched   with    tender 

bloom 
Beneath  the  fresh-blown  rose  of  dawn. 

We  saw  in  richer  sunsets  lost 

The  sombre  pomp  of  showery  noons ; 

And  signalled  spectral  sails  that  crossed 
The  weird,  low  light  of  rising  moons. 

On  stormy  eves  from  cliff  and  head 
We  saw  the  white  spray  tossed  and 
spurned ; 

While  over  all,  in  gold  and  red, 

Its  face  of  fire  the  lighthouse  turned. 

The  rail-car  brought  its  daily  crowds, 
Half  curious,  half  indifferent, 

Like  passing  sails  or  floating  clouds, 
We  saw  them  as  they  came  and  went. 

But,  one  calm  morning,  as  we  lay 
And  watched  the  mirage-lifted  wall 

Of  coast,  across  the  dreamy  bay, 
And  heard  afar  the  curlew  call, 

And  nearer  voices,  wild  or  tame, 
Of  airy  flock  and  childish  throng, 

Up  from  the  water's  edge  there  came 
Faint  snatches  of  familiar  song. 

Careless  we  heard  the  singer's  choice 
Of  old  and  common  airs  ;  at  last 

The  tender  pathos  of  his  voice 
In  one  low  chanson  held  us  fast. 

A  song  that  mingled  joy  and  pain, 
And  memories  old  and  sadly  sweet ; 

While,  timing  to  its  minor  strain, 
The  waves  in  lapsing  cadence  beat. 


The  waves  are  glad  in  breeze  and  sun ; 
The  rocks  are  fringed  with  foam  ; 


A  MYSTERY. 


389 


I  walk  once  more  a  haunted  shore, 
A  stranger,  yet  at  home,  — 
A  land  of  dreams  I  roam. 

Is  this  the  wind,  the  soft  sea-wind 
That  stirred  thy  locks  of  brown  ? 

Are  these  the  rocks  whose  mosses  knew 
The  trail  of  thy  light  gown, 
Where  boy  and  girl  sat  down  ? 

I  see  the  gray  fort's  broken  wall, 
The  boats  that  rock  below  ; 

And,  out  at  sea,  the  passing  sails 
We  saw  so  long  ago 
Rose-red  in  morning's  glow. 

The  freshness  of  the  early  time 

On  every  breeze  is  blown  ; 
As  glad  the  sea,  as  blue  the  sky,  — 

The  change  is  ours  alone  ; 

The  saddest  is  my  own. 

A  stranger  now,  a  world-worn  man, 

Is  he  who  bears  my  name  ; 
But  thou,  methinks,  whose  mortal  life 

Immortal  youth  became, 

Art  evermore  the  same. 

Thou  art  not  here,  thou  art  not  there, 
Thy  place  I  cannot  see  ; 

I  only  know  that  where  thou  art 
The  blessed  angels  be, 
And  heaven  is  glad  for  thee. 

Forgive  me  if  the  evil  years 

Have  left  on  me  their  sign  ; 
Wash  out,  0  soul  so  beautiful, 

The  many  stains  of  mine 

In  tears  of  love  divine  ! 

I  could  not  look  on  thee  and  live, 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side  ; 
The  vision  of  a  shining  one, 

The  white  and  heavenly  bride, 

Is  well  to  me  denied. 

But  turn  to  me  thy  dear  girl-face 

Without  the  angel's  crown, 
The  wedded  roses  of  thy  lips, 

Thy  loose  hair  rippling  down 

In  waves  of  golden  brown. 

Look  forth  once  more  through  space  and 

time, 

And  let  thy  sweet  shade  fall 
In  tendeiest  grace  of  soul  and  form 


On  memory's  frescoed  wall. 
A  shadow,  and  yet  all ! 

Draw  near,  more  near,  forever  dear ! 
Where'er  I  rest  or  roam, 

Or  in  the  city's  crowded  streets, 
Or  by  the  blown  sea  foam, 
The  thought  of  thee  is  home ! 


At  breakfast  hour  the  singer  read 
The  city  news,  with  comment  wise, 

Like  one  who  felt  the  pulse  of  trade 
Beneath  his  finger  fall  and  rise. 

His  look,  his  air,  his  curt  speech,  told 
The  man  of  action,  not  of  books, 

To  whom  the  corners  made  in  gold 
And   stocks  were  more  than   seaside 
nooks. 

Of  life  beneath  the  life  confessed 
His  song  had  hinted  unawares  ; 

Of  flowers  in  traffic's  ledgers  pressed, 
Of  human  hearts  in  bulls  and  bears. 

But  eyes  in  vain  were  turned  to  watch 
That   face  so  hard  and  shrewd  and 
strong ; 

And  ears  in  vain  grew  sharp  to  catch 
The  meaning  of  that  morning  song. 

In  vain  some  sweet-voiced  querist  sought 
To  sound  him,  leaving  as  she  came ; 

Her  baited  album  only  caught 
A  common,  unromantic  name. 

No  word  betrayed  the  mystery  fine, 
That  trembled  on  the  singer's  tongue ; 

He  came  and  went,  and  left  no  sign 
Behind  him  save  the  song  he  sung. 


A  MYSTERY. 

THE  river  hemmed  with  leaning  trees 
Wound  through  its  meadows  green  ; 

A  low,  blue  line  of  mountains  showed 
The  open  pines  between. 

One  sharp,  tall  peak  above  them  all 
Clear  into  sunlight  sprang : 

I  saw  the  river  of  my  dreams, 
The  mountains  that  I  sang  \ 


390 


HAZEL   BLOSSOMS. 


No  clew  of  memory  led  me  on, 
But  well  the  ways  I  knew  ; 

A  feeling  of  familiar  things 
With  every  footstep  grew. 

Not  otherwise  above  its  crag 
Could  lean  the  blasted  pine  ; 

Not  otherwise  the  maple  hold 
Aloft  its  red  ensign. 

So  up  the  long  and  shorn  foot-hills 
The  mountain  road  should  creep ; 

So,  green  and  low,  the  meadow  fold 
Its  red-haired  kine  asleep. 

The  river  wound  as  it  should  wind  ; 

Their  place  the  mountains  took  ; 
The  white  torn  fringes  of  their  clouds 

Wore  no  unwonted  look. 

Yet  ne'er  before  that  river's  rim 
Was  pressed  by  feet  of  mine, 

Never  before  mine  eyes  had  crossed 
That  broken  mountain  line. 

A  presence,  strange  at  once  and  known, 
Walked  with  me  as  my  guide  ; 

The  skirts  of  some  forgotten  life 
Trailed  noiseless  at  my  side. 

Was  it  a  dim-remembered  dream  ? 

Or  glimpse  through  aeons  old  ? 
The  secret  which  the  mountains  kept 

The  river  never  told. 

But  from  the  vision  ere  it  passed 

A  tender  hope  I  drew, 
And,  pleasant  as  a  dawn  of  spring, 

The  thought  within  me  grew, 

That  love  would  temper  every  change, 

And  soften  all  surprise, 
And,  misty  with  the  dreams  of  earth, 

The  hills  of  Heaven  arise. 


CONDUCTOR  BRADLEY. 

CONDUCTOR  BRADLEY,  (always  may  his 

name 
Be  said  with  reverence  !)  as  the  swift 

doom  came, 
Smitten  to  death,  a  crushed  and  mangled 

frame, 


Sank,   with  the  brake  he  grasped  just 

where  he  stood 
To    do   the   utmost   that  a  brave  man 

could, 
And  die,  if  needful,  as  a  true  man  should. 

Men  stooped  above  him  ;  women  dropped 

their  tears 
On  that  poor  wreck  beyond  all  hopes  or 

fears, 
Lost  in  the  strength  and  glory  of  his 

years. 

What  heard  they  ?   Lo  !  the  ghastly  lips 

of  pain, 
Dead  to  all  thought  save  duty's,  moved 

again : 
"  Put   out    the  signals   for   the   other 

train !  " 

No  nobler  utterance    since   the  world 

began 

From  lips  of  saint  or  martyr  ever  ran, 
Electric,  through  the  sympathies  of  man. 

Ah  me  !  how  poor  and  noteless  seem  to 
this 

The  sick-bed  dramas  of  self-conscious 
ness, 

Our  sensual  fears  of  pain  and  hopes  of 
bliss  ! 

0,  grand,  supreme  endeavor  !  Not  in 
vain 

That  last  brave  act  of  failing  tongue  and 
brain ! 

Freighted  with  life  the  downward  rush 
ing  train, 

Following  the  wrecked  one,  as  wave  fol 
lows  wave, 

Obeyed  the  warning  which  the  dead  lips 
gave. 

Others  he  saved,  himself  he  could  not 
save. 

Nay,  the  lost  life  was  saved.     He  is  not 

dead 
Who  in  his  record  still  the  earth  shall 

tread 
With  God's  clear  aureole  shining  round 

his  head. 

We  bow  as  in  the  dust,  with  all  our  pride 
Of  virtue  dwarfed  the  noble  deed  beside. 
God  give  us  grace  to  live  as  Bradley  died ! 


THE   GOLDEN    WEDDING   OF   LONGWOOD. 


391 


CHILD-SONGS. 

STILL  linger  in  our  noon  of  time 

And  on  our  Saxon  tongue 
The  echoes  of  the  home-born  hymns 

The  Aryan  mothers  sung. 

And  childhood  had  its  litanies 

In  every  age  and  clime  ; 
.The  earliest  cradles  of  the  race 
;     Were  rocked  to  poet's  rhyme. 

Nor  sky,  nor  wave,  nor  tree,  nor  flower, 
Nor  green  earth's  virgin  sod, 

So  moved  the  singer's  heart  of  old 
As  these  small  ones  of  God. 

The  mystery  of  unfolding  life 
Was  more  than  dawning  morn, 

Than  opening  flower  or  crescent  moon 
The  human  soul  new-born  ! 

And  still  to  childhood's  sweet  appeal 

The  heart  of  genius  turns, 
And  more  than  all  the  sages  teach 

From  lisping  voices  learns,  — 

The  voices  loved  of  him  who  sang, 
Where  Tweed  and  Teviot  glide, 

That  sound  to-day  on  all  the  winds 
That  blow  from  Eydal-side,  — 

Heard  in  the  Teuton's  household  songs, 

And  folk-lore  of  the  Finn, 
Where'er  to  holy  Christmas  hearths 

The  Christ-child  enters  in  ! 

Before  life's  sweetest  mystery  still 
The  heart  in  reverence  kneels  ; 

The  wonder  of  the  primal  birth 
The  latest  mother  feels. 

We  need  love's  tender  lessons  taught 

As  only  weakness  can  ; 
God  hath  his  small  interpreters  ; 

The  child  must  teach  the  man. 

We  wander  wide  through  evil  years, 
Our  eyes  of  faith  grow  dim  ; 

But  he  is  freshest  from  His  hands 
And  nearest  unto  Him  ! 

And  haply,  pleading  long  with  Him 
For  sin-sick  hearts  and  cold, 

The  angels  of  our  childhood  still 
The  Father's  face  behold. 


Of  such  the  kingdom  !  —  Teach  thou  us, 

0  Master  most  divine, 
To  feel  the  deep  significance 

Of  these  wise  words  of  thine  ! 

The  haughty  eye  shall  seek  in  vain 

What  innocence  beholds  ; 
No  cunning  finds  the  key  of  heaven, 

No  strength  its  gate  unfolds. 

Alone  to  guilelessness  and  love 

That  gate  shall  open  fall ; 
The  mind  of  pride  is  nothingness, 

The  childlike  heart  is  all  ! 


THE    GOLDEN    WEDDING    OF 
LONGWOOD. 

WITH  fifty  years  between  you  and  your 
well-kept  wedding  vow, 

The  Golden  Age,  old  friends  of  mine,  is 
not  a  fable  now. 

And,  sweet  as  has  life's  vintage  been 
through  all  your  pleasant  past, 

Still,  as  at  Cana's  marriage -feast,  the 
best  wine  is  the  last  ! 

Again  before  me,  with  your  names,  fair 
Chester's  landscape  comes, 

Its  meadows,  woods,  and  ample  barns, 
and  quaint,  stone-builded  homes. 

The  smooth-shorn  vales,  the  wheaten 
slopes,  the  boscage  green  and  soft, 

Of  which  their  poet  sings  so  well  from 
towered  Cedarcroft. 

And  lo  !  from  all  the  country-side  come 
neighbors,  kith  and  kin  ; 

From  city,  hamlet,  farm-house  old,  the 
wedding  guests  come  in. 

And  they  who,  without  scrip  or  purse, 
mob-hunted,  travel-worn, 

In  Freedom's  age  of  martyrs  came,  as 
victors  now  return. 

Older  and  slower,  yet  the  same,  files  in 

the  long  array, 
And  hearts  are  light  and  eyes  are  glad, 

though  heads  are  badger-gray. 

The  fire-tried  men  of  Thirty-eight  who 

saw  with  me  the  fall, 
Midst  roaring  flames  and  shouting  mob, 

of  Pennsylvania  Hall ; 


392 


HAZEL   BLOSSOMS. 


And  they  of  Lancaster  who  turned  the 

cheeks  of  tyrants  pale, 
Singing  of  freedom  through  the  grates 

of  Moyamensing  jail  ! 

And  haply  with  them,  all  unseen,  old 

comrades,  gone  before, 
Pass,  silently  as  shadows  pass,  within 

your  open  door,  — 

The  eagle  face  of  Lindley  Coates,  brave 

Garrett's  daring  zeal, 
The   Christian   grace   of   Ponnock,    the 

steadfast  heart  of  Neal. 


Ah  me  !  beyond  all  power  to  name,  the 

worthies  tried  and  true, 
Grave  men,  fair  women,  youth  and  maid, 

pass  by  in  hushed  review. 

Of  varying  faiths,  a  common  cause  fused 

all  their  hearts  in  one. 
God    give    them    now,    whate'er    their 

names,  the  peace  of  duty  done  ! 

How  gladly  would  I  tread  again  the  old- 
remembered  places, 

Sit  down  beside  your  hearth  once  more 
and  look  in  the  dear  old  faces  ! 

And  thank  you  for  the  lessons  your  fifty 

years  are  teaching, 
For  honest  lives  that  louder  speak  than 

half  our  noisy  preaching  ; 

For  your  steady  faith  and  courage  in 
that  dark  and  evil  time, 

When  the  Golden  Rule  was  treason,  and 
to  feed  the  hungry,  crime  ; 

For  the  poor  slave's  house  of  refuge  when 
the  hounds  were  on  his  track, 

And  saint  and  sinner,  church  and  state, 
joined  hands  to  send  him  back. 

Blessings  upon  you  !  —  What  you  did 
for  each  sad,  suffering  one, 

So  homeless,  faint,  and  naked,  unto  our 
Lord  was  done  ! 

Fair  fall  on  Kennett's  pleasant  vales  and 
Longwood's  bowery  ways 

The  mellow  sunset  of  your  lives,  friends 
of  my  early  days. 


May  many  more  of  quiet  years  be  added 

to  your  sum, 
And,  late  at  last,  in  tenderest  love,  the 

beckoning  angel  come. 

Dear  hearts  are  here,  dear  hearts  are 
there,  alike  below,  above  ; 

Our  friends  are  now  in  either  world,  and 
love  is  sure  of  love. 


KINSMAN. 

DIED    AT   THE    ISLAND    OF    PANAT   (PHI 
LIPPINE   GROUP),  AGED  19  YEARS. 

WHERE   ceaseless   Spring  her  garland 
twines, 

As  sweetly  shall  the  loved  one  rest, 
As  if  beneath  the  whispering  pines 

And  maple  shadows  of  the  West. 

Ye  mourn,  0  hearts  of  home  !  for  him, 
But,  haply,  mourn  ye  not  alone ; 

For  him  shall  far-off  eyes  be  dim, 
And  pity  speak  in  tongues  unknown. 

There  needs  no  graven  line  to  give 
The  story  of  his  blameless  youth ; 

All  hearts  shall  throb  intuitive, 
And  nature  guess  the  simple  truth. 

The  very  meaning  of  his  name 
Shall  many  a  tender  tribute  win  ; 

The  stranger  own  his  sacred  claim, 
And  all  the  world  shall  be  his  kin. 

And  there,  as  here,  on  main  and  isle, 
The  dews  of  holy  peace  shall  fall, 

The   same    sweet    heavens    above   him 

smile, 
And  God's  dear  love  be  over  all  i 


VESTA. 

0  CHRIST  of  God !  whose  life  and  death 

Our  own  have  reconciled, 
Most  quietly,  most  tenderly 

Take  home  thy  star-named  child ! 

Thy  grace  is  in  her  patient  eyes, 
Thy  words  are  on  her  tongue  ; 

The  very  silence  round  her  seems 
As  if  the  angels  sung. 


A  CHRISTMAS   CARMEN. 


393 


Her  smile  is  as  a  listening  child's 
Who  hears  its  mother  call ; 

The  lilies  of  Thy  perfect  peace 
About  her  pillow  fall. 

She  leans  from  out  our  clinging  arms 

To  rest  herself  in  Thine  ; 
Alone  to  Thee,  dear  Lord,  can  we 

Our  well-beloved  resign  ! 

0,  less  for  her  than  for  ourselves 
We  bow  our  heads  and  pray ; 

Her  setting  star,  like  Bethlehem's, 
To  Thee  shall  point  the  way ! 


THE   HEALER. 

TO  A  YOUNG  PHYSICIAN,  WITH  DORE's 
PICTURE  OF  CHRIST  HEALING  THE 
SICK. 

So  stood  of  old  the  holy  Christ 
Amidst  the  suffering  throng ; 

With  whom  his  lightest  touch  sufficed 
To  make  the  weakest  strong. 

That  healing  gift  he  lends  to  them 

Who  use  it  in  his  name ; 
The  power  that  filled  his  garment's  hem 

Is  evermore  the  same. 

For  lo  !  in  human  hearts  unseen 

The  Healer  dwelleth  still, 
And  they  who  make  "his  temples  clean 

The  best  subserve  his  will. 

The  holiest  task  by  Heaven  decreed, 

An  errand  all  divine, 
The  burden  of  our  common  need 

To  render  less  is  thine. 

The  paths  of  pain  are  thine.     Go  forth 
With  patience,  trust,  and  hope ; 

The  sufferings  of  a  sin-sick  earth 
Shall  give  thee  ample  scope. 

Beside  the  unveiled  mysteries 

Of  life  and  death  go  stand, 
With  guarded  lips  and  reverent  eyes 

And  pure  of  heart  and  hand. 

So  shalt  thou  be  with  power  endued 

From  Him  who  went  about 
The  Syrian  hillsides  doing  good, 

And  casting  demons  out. 


That  Good  Physician  liveth  yet 
Thy  friend  and  guide  to  be ; 

The  Healer  by  Gennesaret 

Shall  walk  the  rounds  with  thee. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CARMEN. 


SOUND  over  all  waters,  reach  out  from 

all  lands, 
The  chorus  of  voices,    the  clasping   of 

hands ; 
Sing  hymns  that  were  sung  by  the  stars 

of  the  morn, 
Sing  songs  of  the  angels  when  Jesus  was 

born ! 

With  glad  jubilations 
Bring  hope  to  the  nations  ! 
The  dark  night  is  ending  and  dawn  has 

begun  : 

Rise,  hope  of  the  ages,  arise  like  the  sun, 
All  speech  flow  to  music,  all  hearts 

beat  as  one ! 

II. 
Sing  the  bridal  of  nations  !  with  chorals 

of  love 
Sing  out  the  war- vulture  and  sing  in  the 

dove, 
Till  the  hearts  of  the  peoples  keep  time 

in  accord, 
And  the  voice  of  the  world  is  the  voice 

of  the  Lord  ! 

Clasp  hands  of  the  nations 
In  strong  gratulations : 
The  dark  night  is  ending  and  dawn  has 

begun  ; 

Rise,  hope  of  the  ages,  arise  like  the  sun, 
All  speech  flow  to  music,  all  hearts 
beat  as  one  ! 

III. 

Blow,  bugles  of  battle,  the  marches  of 

peace  ; 
East,  west,  north,  and  south  let  the  long 

quarrel  cease  : 
Sing   the   song   of  great  joy  that   the 

angels  began, 
Sing  of  glory  to  God  and  of  good-will  to 

man  ! 

Hark  !  joining  in  chorus 
The  heavens  bend  o'er  us  ! 
The  dark  night  is  ending  and  dawn  has 

begun  ; 


394 


HAZEL   BLOSSOMS. 


Rise,  hope  of  the  ages,  arise  like  the 

sun, 

All  speech  flow  to   music,  all  hearts 
beat  as  one ! 


HYMN 

FOR       THE       OPENING       OF       PLYMOUTH 
CHURCH,    ST.    PAUL,    MINNESOTA. 

ALL  things  are  Thine :  no  gift  have  we, 
Lord  of  all  gifts  !  to  offer  Thee  ; 
And  hence  with  grateful  hearts  to-day, 
Thy  own  before  Thy  feet  we  lay. 

Thy  will  was  in  the  builders'  thought ; 
Thy  hand  unseen  amidst  us  wrought ; 


Through  mortal  motive,  scheme  and  plan, 
Thy  wise  eternal  purpose  ran. 

No  lack  Thy  perfect  fulness  knew ; 
For  human  needs  and  longings  grew 
This  house  of  prayer,  this  home  of  rest, 
In  the  fair  garden  of  the  West. 

In  weakness  and  in  want  we  call 
On  Thee  for  whom  the  heavens  are  small ; 
Thy  glory  is  Thy  children's  good, 
Thy  joy  Thy  tender  Fatherhood. 

0  Father  !  deign  these  walls  to  bless  . 
Fill  with  Thy  love  their  emptiness  . 
And  let  their  door  a  gateway  be 
To  lead  us  from  ourselves  to  Thee  J 


POEMS  BY  ELIZABETH  H.  WHITTIER. 


THE  DREAM   OF  ARGYLE. 

EARTHLY  arms  no  more  uphold  him 

On  his  prison's  stony  floor ; 
"Waiting  death  in  his  last  slumber, 

Lies  the  doomed  MacCallum  More. 

And  he  dreams  a  dream  of  boyhood ; 

Rise  again  his  heathery  hills, 
Sound  again  the  hound's  long  baying, 

Cry  of  moor-fowl,  laugh  of  rills. 

Now  he  stands  amidst  his  clansmen 
In  the  low,  long  banquet-hall, 

Over  grim,  ancestral  armor 
Sees  the  ruddy  firelight  fall. 

Once  again,  with  pulses  beating, 
Hears  the  wandering  minstrel  tell 

How  Montrose  on  Inverary 

Thief-like  from  his  mountains  fell. 

Down  the  glen,  beyond  the  castle, 
Where  the  linn's  swift  waters  shine, 

Round  the  youthful  heir  of  Argyle 
Shy  feet  glide  and  white  arms  twine. 

Fairest  of  the  rustic  dancers, 

Blue-eyed  Effie  smiles  once  more, 

Bends  to  him  her  snood ed  tresses, 
Treads  with  him  the  grassy  floor. 


Now  he  hears  the  pipes  lamenting, 
Harpers  for  his  mother  mourn, 

Slow,  with  sable  plume  and  pennon, 
To  her  cairn  of  burial  borne. 


Then  anon  his  dreams  are  darker, 
Sounds  of  battle  fill  his  ears, 

And  the  pibroch's  mournful  wailing 
For  his  father's  fall  he  hears. 

Wild  Lochaber's  mountain  echoes 
Wail  in  concert  for  the  dead, 

And  Loch  Awe's  deep  waters  murmur 
For  the  Campbell's  glory  fled  ! 

Fierce  and  strong  the  godless  tyrants 

Trample  the  apostate  land, 
While  her  poor  and  faithful  remnant 

Wait  for  the  Avenger's  hand. 

Once  again  at  Inverary, 

Years  of  weary  exile  o'er, 
Armed  to  lead  his  scattered  clansmen, 

Stands  the  bold  MacCallum  More. 

Once  again  to  battle  calling 

Sound  the  war-pipes  through  the  glen ; 
And  the  court-yard  of  Dunstaffnage 

Rings  with  tread  of  armed  men. 


LINES. 


39fi 


All  is  lost !    The  godless  triumph, 
And  the  faithful  ones  and  true 

From  the  scaffold  and  the  prison 
Covenant  with  God  anew. 

On  the  darkness  of  his  dreaming 
Great  and  sudden  glory  shone ; 

Over  bonds  and  death  victorious 
Stands  he  by  the  Father's  throne  ! 

From  the  radiant  ranks  of  martyrs 
Notes  of  joy  and  praise  he  hears, 

Songs  of  his  poor-  land's  deliverance 
Sounding  from  the  future  years. 

Lo,  he  wakes  !  but  airs  celestial 
Bathe  him  in  immortal  rest, 

And  he  sees  with  unsealed  vision 
Scotland's  cause  with  victory  blest. 

Shining  hosts  attend  and  guard  him 
As  he  leaves  his  prison  door  ; 

And  to  death  as  to  a  triumph 

Walks  the  great  MacCallum  More  ! 


LINES 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  DEPARTURE  OF 
JOSEPH  STTJRGE,  AFTER  HIS  VISIT 
TO  THE  ABOLITIONISTS  OF  THE 
UNITED  STATES. 

FAIR  islands  of  the  sunny  sea  !   midst 

all  rejoicing  things, 
No  more  the  wailing  of  the  slave  a  wild 

discordance  brings  ; 
On  the  lifted  brows  of  freemen  the  tropic 

breezes  blow, 
The  mildew  of  the  bondman's  toil  the 

land  no  more  shall  know. 

How  swells  from  those  green  islands, 

where  bird  and  leaf  and  flower 
Are  praising  in  their  own  sweet  way  the 

dawn  of  freedom's  hour, 
The    glorious    resurrection    song   from 

hearts  rejoicing  poured, 
Thanksgiving  for  the  priceless  gift,  — 

man's  regal  crown  restored  ! 

How  beautiful  through  all  the  green  and 

tranquil  summer  land, 
Uplifted,    as    by  miracle,    the    solemn 

churches  stand  ! 


The  grass  is  trodden  from  the  paths 
where  waiting  freemen  throng, 

Athirst  and  fainting  for  the  cup  of  li.fi; 
denied  so  long. 

0,  blessed  were  the  feet  of  him  whose 

generous  errand  here 
Was  to  unloose  the  captive's  chain  and 

dry  the  mourner's  tear ; 
To  lift  again  the  fallen  ones  a  brother's 

robber  hand 
Had  left  in  pain  and  wretchedness  by  the 

waysides  of  the  land. 

The  islands  of  the  sea  rejoice  ;  the  har 
vest  anthems  rise  ; 

The  sower  of  the  seed  must  own  't  is 
marvellous  in  his  eyes  ; 

The  old  waste  places  are  rebuilt,  —  the 
broken  walls  restored,  — 

And  the  wilderness  is  blooming  like  the 
garden  of  the  Lord  ! 

Thanksgiving  for  the  holy  fruit !  should 

not  the  laborer  rest, 
His  earnest  faith  and  works  of  love  have 

been  so  richly  blest  ? 
The  pride  of  all  fair  England  shall  her 

ocean  islands  be, 
And  their  peasantry  with  joyful  hearts 

keep  ceaseless  jubilee. 

Rest,  never  !  while  his  countrymen  have 

trampled  hearts  to  bleed, 
The  stifled  murmur  of  their  wrongs  his 

listening  ear  shall  heed, 
Where  England's  far  dependencies  her 

might,  not  mercy,  know, 
To  all  the  crushed  and  suffering  there 

his  pitying  love  shall  flow. 

The  friend  of  freedom  everywhere,  how 

mourns  he  for  our  land, 
The  brand  of  whose  hypocrisy  burns  on 

her  guilty  hand  ! 
Her  thrift  a  theft,  the  robber's  greed  and 

cunning  in  her  eye, 
Her  glory  shame,  her  flaunting  flag  on 

all  the  winds  a  lie  ! 

For  us  with  steady  strength  of  heart  and 

zeal  forever  true, 
The  champion  of  the  island  slave  the 

conflict  doth  renew, 
His  labor  here  hath  been  to  point  the 

Pharisaic  eye 
Away  from  empty  creed  and  form   to 

where  the  wounded  lie. 


396 


HAZEL   BLOSSOMS. 


How  beautiful  to  us  should  seem  the 
coming  feet  of  such ! 

Their  garments  of  self-sacrifice  have  heal 
ing  in  their  touch  ; 

Their  gospel  mission  none  may  doubt, 
for  they  heed  the  Master's  call, 

Who  here  walked  with  the  multitude, 
and  sat  at  meat  with  all ! 


JOHN   QUINCY  ADAMS. 

HE  rests  with  the  immortals  ;  his  jour 
ney  has  been  long  : 

For  him  no  wail  of  sorrow,  but  a  paean 
full  and  strong ! 

So  well  and  bravely  has  he  done  the 
work  he  found  to  do, 

To  justice,  freedom,  duty,  God,  and  man 
forever  true. 

Strong  to  the  end,  a  man  of  men,  from 

out  the  strife  he  passed  ; 
The  grandest  hour  of  ail  his  life  was  that 

of  earth  the  last. 
Now  midst  his  snowy  hills  of  home  to 

the  grave  they  bear  him  down, 
The  glory  of  his  fourscore  years  resting 

on  him  like  a  crown. 

The  mourning  of  the  many  bells,  the 

drooping  flags,  all  seem 
Like  some  dim,  unreal  pageant  passing 

onward  in  a  dream  ; 
And  following  with  the  living  to  his  last 

and  narrow  bed, 
Methinks  I  see  a  shadowy  band,  a  train 

of  noble  dead. 

'T  is  a  strange  and  weird  procession  that 

is  slowly  moving  on, 
The  phantom   patriots  gathered  to  the 

funeral  of  their  son  ! 
In  shadowy  guise  they  move  along,  brave 

Otis  with  hushed  tread, 
And  Warren  walking  reverently  by  the 

father  of  the  dead. 

Gliding  foremost  in  the  misty  band  a 

gentle  form  is  there, 
In  the  white  robes  of  the  angels  and 

their  glory  round  her  hair. 
She  hovers  near  and  bends  above  her 

world-wide  honored  child, 
And  the  joy  that  heaven  alone  can  know 

beams  on  her  features  mild. 


And  so  they  bear  him  to  his  grave  in 

the  fulness  of  his  years, 
True  sage  and  prophet,  leaving  us  in  a 

time  of  many  fears. 
Nevermore   amid  the   darkness   of  our 

wild  and  evil  day 
Shall  his  voice  be  heard  to  cheer  us, 

shall  his  finger  point  the  way. 


DR.    KANE  IN  CUBA. 

A  NOBLE  life  is  in  thy  care, 

A  sacred  trust  to  thee  is  given  ; 

Bright  Island  !  let  thy  healing  air 
Be  to  him  as  the  breath  of  Heaven. 

The  marvel  of  his  daring  life  — 
The  self-forgetting  leader  bold  — 

Stirs,  like  the  trumpet's  call  to  strife, 
A  million  hearts  of  meaner  mould. 

Eyes  that  shall  never  meet  his  own 
Look  dim  with  tears  across  the  sea, 

Where  from  the  dark  and  icy  zone, 
Sweet  Isle  of  Flowers  !  he  comes  to  thee. 

Fold  him  in  rest,  0  pitying  clime  ! 

Give  back  his  wasted  strength  again  ; 
Soothe,  with  thy  endless  summer  time, 

His  winter-wearied  heart  and  brain. 

Sing  soft  and  low,  thou  tropic  bird, 
From  out  the  fragrant,  flowery  tree,  — 

The  ear  that  hears  thee  now  has  heard 
The  ice-break  of  the  winter  sea. 

Through  his  long  watch  of  awful  night, 
He  saw  the  Bear  in  Northern  skies  ; 

Now,  to  the  Southern  Cross  of  light 
He  lifts  in  hope  his  weary  eyes. 

Prayers  from  the  hearts  that  watched  in 
fear, 

When  the  dark  North  no  answer  gave, 
Else,  trembling,  to  the  Father's  ear, 

That  still  His  love  may  help  and  save. 


LADY  FRANKLIN. 

FOLD  thy  hands,  thy  work  is  over  ; 

Cool  thy  watching  eyes  with  tears  •> 
Let  thy  poor  heart,  over-wearied, 

Rest  alike  from  hopes  and  fears,  — 


THE   MEETING    WATEKS. 


397 


Hopes,  that  saw  with  sleepless  vision 
One  sad  picture  fading  slow  ; 

Fears,  that  followed,  vague  and  name 
less, 
Lifting  back  the  veils  of  snow. 

For  thy  brave  one,  for  thy  lost  one, 
Truest  heart  of  woman,  weep  ! 

Owning  still  the  love  that  granted 
Unto  thy  beloved  sleep. 

Not  for  him  that  hour  of  terror 
When,  the  long  ice-battle  o'er, 

In  the  sunless  day  his  comrades 
Deathward  trod  the  Polar  shore. 

Spared  the  cruel  cold  and  famine, 
Spared  the  fainting  heart's  despair, 

What  but  that  could  mercy  grant  him  ? 
"What  but  that  has  been  thy  prayer  ? 

Dear  to  thee  that  last  memorial 
From  the  cairn  beside  the  sea  ; 

Evermore  the  month  of  roses 
Shall  be  sacred  time  to  thee. 

Sad  it  is  the  mournful  yew-tree 
O'er  his  slumbers  may  not  wave  ; 

Sad  it  is  the  English  daisy 
May  not  blossom  on  his  grave. 

But  his  tomb  shall  storm  and  winter 
Shape  and  fashion  year  by  year, 

Pile  his  mighty  mausoleum, 

Block  by  block,  and  tier  on  tier. 

Guardian  of  its  gleaming  portal 
Shall  his  stainless  honor  be, 

While  thy  love,  a  sweet  immortal, 
Hovers  o'er  the  winter  sea. 


NIGHT  AND  DEATH. 

THE  storm-wind  is  howling 
Through  old  pines  afar  ; 

The  drear  night  is  falling 
Without  moon  or  star. 

The  roused  sea  is  lashing 
The  bold  shore  behind, 

And  the  moan  of  its  ebbing 
•Keeps  time  with  the  wind. 

On,  on  through  the  darkness, 
A  spectre,  I  pass 


Where,  like  moaning  of  broken  hearts, 
Surges  the  grass  ! 

I  see  her  lone  head-stone,  — 

'T  is  white  as  a  shroud  ; 
Like  a  pall,  hangs  above  it 

The  low  drooping  cloud. 

Who  speaks  through  the  dark  night 

And  lull  of  the  wind  ? 
'T  is  the  sound  of  the  pine-leaves 

And  sea-waves  behind. 

The  dead  girl  is  silent,  — 

I  stand  by  her  now  ; 
And  her  pulse  beats  no  quicker, 

Nor  crimsons  her  brow. 

The  small  hand  that  trembled, 

When  last  in  my  own, 
Lies  patient  and  folded, 

And  colder  than  stone. 

Like  the  white  blossoms  falling 

To-night  in  the  gale, 
So  she  in  her  beauty 

Sank  mournful  and  pale. 

Yet  I  loved  her  !     I  utter 

Such  words  by  her  grave, 
As  I  would  not  have  spoken 

Her  last  breath  to  save. 

Of  her  love  the  angels 

In  heaven  might  tell, 
While  mine  would  be  whispered 

With  shudders  in  hell ! 

'T  was  well  that  the  white  ones 

Who  bore  her  to  bliss 
Shut  out  from  her  new  life 

The  vision  of  this. 

Else,  sure  as  I  stand  here, 

And  speak  of  my  love, 
She  would  leave  for  my  darkness 

Her  glory  above. 


THE  MEETING  WATERS. 

CLOSE  beside  the  meeting  waters. 
Long  I  stood  as  in  a  dream, 

Watching  how  the  little  river 
Fell  into  the  broader  stream. 


398 


HAZEL  BLOSSOMS. 


Calm  and  still  the  mingled  current 

Glided  to  the  waiting  sea ; 
Oil  its  breast  serenely  pictured 

Floating  cloud  and  skirting  tree. 

And  I  thought,  "  0  human  spirit ! 

Strong  and  deep  and  pure  and  blest, 
Let  the  stream  of  my  existence 

Blend  with  thine,  and  find  its  rest !  " 

I  could  die  as  dies  the  river, 
In  that  current  deep  and  wide  ; 

I  would  live  as  live  its  waters, 
Flashing  from  a  stronger  tide  ! 


THE   WEDDING  VEIL. 

DEAR  Anna,  when  I  brought  her  veil, 
Her  white  veil,  on  her  wedding  night, 

Threw  o'er  my  thin  brown  hair  its  folds, 
And,  laughing,  turned  me  to  the  light. 

"See,  Bessie,  see  !  you  wear  at  last 
The  bridal  veil,  forsworn  for  years  !  " 

She    saw    my    face,  —  her    laugh    was 

hushed, 
Her  happy  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

With  kindly  haste  and  trembling  hand 
She  drew  away  the  gauzy  mist ; 

"  Forgive,  dear  heart !  "  her  sweet  voice 

said  : 
Her  loving  lips  my  forehead  kissed. 

We  passed  from  out  the  searching  light ; 

The  summer  night  was  calm  and  fair  : 
t  did  not  see  her  pitying  eyes, 

I  felt  her  soft  hand  smooth  my  hair. 


Her  tender  love  unlocked  my  heart ; 

Mid  falling  tears,  at  last  I  said, 
"  Forsworn  indeed  to  me  that  veil 

Because  I  only  love  the  dead  ! " 

She  stood  one  moment  statue-still, 
And,  musing,  spake  in  undertone, 

"  The  living  love  may  colder  grow  ; 
The  dead  is  safe  with  God  alone  !  " 


CHARITY. 

THE  pilgrim  and  stranger  who  through 

the  day 

Holds  over  the  desert  his  trackless  way, 
Where  the  terrible  sands  no  shade  have 

known, 

No  sound  of  life  save  his  camel's  moan, 
Hears,   at   last,   through   the   mercy  of 

Allah  to  all, 

From  his  tent-door  at  evening  the  Be 
douin's  call : 

"  Whoever  thou  art  whose  need  is  great, 
In  the  name  of  God,  the  Compassionate 
And  Merciful  One,  for  thee  I  wait !  " 

For  gifts  in  His  name  of  food  and  rest 
The  tents  of  Islam  of  God  are  blest, 
Thou  who  hast  faith  in  the  Christ  above, 
Shall  the  Koran  teach  thee  the  Law  of 

Love  ?  — 

0  Christian  !  —  open  thy  heart  and  door, 
Cry  east  and  west  to  the  wandering  poor  : 
' '  Whoever  thou  art  whose  need  is  great, 
In  the  name  of  Christ,  the  Compassionate. 
And  Merciful  One,  for  thee  I  wait !  " 


THE   VISION    OF   ECHAKD, 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  VISION  OF  ECHARD. 

THE  Benedictine  Echard 

Sat,  worn  by  wanderings  far, 

Where  Marsberg  sees  the  bridal 
Of  the  Moselle  and  Sarre. 

Fair  with  its  sloping  vineyards 
And  tawny  chestnut  bloom, 

The  happy  vale  Ausonius  sung 
For  holy  Treves  made  room. 

On  the  shrine  Helena  builded 
To  keep  the  Christ  coat  well, 

On  minster  tower  and  kloster  cross, 
The  westering  sunshine  fell. 

There,  where  the  rock-hewn  circles 
O'erlooked  the  Roman's  game, 

The  veil  of  sleep  fell  on  him, 

And  his  thought  a  dream  became. 

He  felt  the  heart  of  silence 
Throb  with  a  soundless  word, 

And  by  the  inward  ear  alone 
A  spirit's  voice  he  heard. 

And  the  spoken  word  seemed  written 

On  air  and  wave  and  sod, 
And  the  bending  walls  of  sapphire 

Blazed  with  the  thought  of  God  : 

"What  lack  I,  0  my  children  ? 

All  things  are  in  my  hand  ; 
The  vast  earth  and  the  awful  stars 

I  hold  as  grains  of  sand. 

"  Need  I  your  alms  ?     The  silver 
And  gold  are  mine  alone  ; 

The  gifts  ye  bring  before  me 
Were  evermore  my  own. 

"  Heed  I  the  noise  of  viols, 
Your  pomp  of  masque  and  show  ? 

Have  I  not  dawns  and  sunsets  ? 
Have  I  not  winds  that  blow  ? 

"  Do  I  smell  your  gums  of  incense  ? 
Is  ray  ear  with  chantings  fed  ? 


:  Taste  I  your  wine  of  worship, 
Or  eat  your  holy  bread  ? 

' '  Of  rank  and  name  and  honors 
Am  I  vain  as  ye  are  vain  ? 

What  can  Eternal  Fullness 
From  your  lip-service  gain  ? 

' '  Ye  make  me  not  your  debtor 
Who  serve  yourselves  alone  ; 

Ye  boast  to  me  of  homage 
Whose  gain  is  all  your  own. 

"For  you  I  gave  the  prophets, 
For  you  the  Psalmist's  lay  : 

For  you  the  law's  stone  tables, 
And  holy  book  and  day. 

"Ye  change  to  weary  burdens 
The  helps  that  should  uplift ; 

Ye  lose  in  form  the  spirit, 
The  Giver  in  the  gift. 

"Who  called  ye  to  self- torment, 
To  fast  and  penance  vain  ? 

Dream  ye  Eternal  Goodness 
Has  joy  in  mortal  pain  ? 

"  For  the  death  in  life  of  Nitria, 
For  your  Chartreuse  ever  dumb, 

What  better  is  the  neighbor, 
Or  happier  the  home  ? 

"  Who  counts  his  brother's  welfare 

As  sacred  as  his  own, 
And  loves,  forgives,  and  pities, 

He  serveth  me  alone. 

"  I  note  each  gracious  purpose, 
Each  kindly  word  and  deed  ; 

Are  ye  not  all  my  children  ? 
Shall  not  the  Father  heed  ? 

"  No  prayer  for  light  and  guidance 

Is  lost  upon  mine  ear  : 
The  child's  cry  in  the  darkness 

Shall  not  the  Father  hear  ? 


400 


THE  VISION   OF  ECHARD. 


"  I  loathe  your  wrangling  councils, 
I  tread  upon  your  creeds  ; 

"Who  made  ye  mine  avengers, 
Or  told  ye  of  my  needs  ; 

"  I  bless  men  and  ye  curse  them, 

I  love  them  and  ye  hate  ; 
Ye  bite  and  tear  each  other, 

I  suffer  long  and  wait. 

"Ye  bow  to  ghastly  symbols, 
To  cross  and  scourge  and  thorn  ; 

Ye  seek  his  Syrian  manger 
Who  in  the  heart  is  born. 

"  For  the  dead  Christ,  not  the  living, 
Ye  watch  his  empty  grave 

Whose  life  alone  within  you 
Has  power  to  bless  and  save. 

"  0  blind  ones,  outward  groping, 

The  idle  quest  forego  ; 
Who  listens  to  his  inward  voice 

Alone  of  him  shall  know. 

"  His  love  all  love  exceeding 
The  heart  must  needs  recall, 

Its  self-surrendering  freedom, 
Its  loss  that  gaineth  all. 

"  Climb  not  the  holy  mountains, 
Their  eagles  know  not  me  ; 

Seek  not  the  Blessed  Islands, 
I  dwell  not  in  the  sea. 

"  The  gods  are  gone  for  ever 
From  Zanskar's  glacier  sides, 

And  in  the  Buddha's  footprints 
The  Ceylon  serpent  glides. 

"No  more  from  shaded  Delphos 
The  weird  responses  come  ; 

Dodona's  oaks  are  silent, 
The  Hebrew  Bath-Col  dumb  ! 

"  No  more  from  rocky  Horeb 

The  smitten  waters  gush  : 
Fallen  is  Bethel's  ladder, 

Quenched  is  the  burning  bush. 

"  The  jewels  of  the  Urim 
And  Thummim  all  are  dim  ; 

The  fire  has  left  the  altar, 
The  sign  the  teraphim. 

"No  more  in  ark  or  hill  grove 
The  Holiest  abides  ; 


'  Not  in  the  scroll's  dead  letter 
The  eternal  secret  hides. 

"The  eye  shall  fail  that  searches 

For  me  the  hollow  sky  ; 
The  far  is  even  as  the  near, 

The  low  is  as  the  high. 

"What  if  the  earth  is  hiding 
Her  old  faiths,  long  outworn  ? 

What  is  it  to  the  changeless  truth 
That  yours  shall  fail  in  turn  ? 

"What  if  the  o'erturned  altar 
Lays  bare  the  ancient  lie  ? 

What  if  the  dreams  and  legends 
Of  the  world's  childhood  die  ? 

"  Have  ye  not  still  my  witness 
Within  yourselves  alway, 

My  hand  that  on  the  keys  of  life 
For  bliss  or  bale  I  lay  ? 

"Still,  in  perpetual  judgment, 

I  hold  assize  within, 
With  sure  reward  of  holiness, 

And  dread  rebuke  of  sin. 

"  A  light,  a  guide,  a  warning, 

A  presence  ever  near, 
Through  the  deep  silence  of  the  flesh 

I  reach  the  inward  ear. 

' '  My  Gerizim  and  Ebal 

Are  in  each  human  soul, 
The  still,  small  voice  of  blessing, 

And  Sinai's  thunder-roll. 

"The  stern  behest  of  duty, 
The  doom-book  open  thrown, 

The  heaven  ye  seek,  the  hell  ye  fear, 
Are  with  yourselves  alone." 


A  gold  and  purple  sunset 

Flowed  down  the  broad  Moselle  ; 
On  hills  of  vine  and  meadow  lands 

The  peace  of  twilight  fell. 

A  slow,  cool  wind  of  evening 
Blew  over  leaf  and  bloom  ; 

And,  faint  and  far,  the  Angelus 
Rang  from  Saint  Matthew's  tomb. 

Then  up  rose  Master  Echard, 
And  marvelled  :  ' '  Can  it  be 


THE  WITCH   OF  WENHAM. 


401 


"That  here,  in  dream  and  vision, 
The  Lord  hath  talked  with  me  ? ' 

He  went  his  way  ;  behind  him 
The  shrines  of  saintly  dead, 

The  holy  coat  and  nail  of  cross, 
He  left  unvisited. 

He  sought  the  vale  of  Eltzbach 
His  burdened  soul  to  free, 

Where  the  foot-hills  of  the  Eifel 
Are  glassed  in  Laachersee. 

And,  in  his  Order's  kloster, 
He  sat,  in  night-long  parle, 

With  Tauler  of  the  Friends  of  God, 
And  Nicolas  of  Basle. 

And  lo  !  the  twain  made  answer  : 
"Yea,  brother,  even  thus 

The  Voice  above  all  voices 
Hath  spoken  unto  us. 

"The  world  will  have  its  idols, 
And  flesh  and  sense  their  sign  ; 

But  the  blinded  eyes  shall  open, 
And  the  gross  ear  be  fine. 

' '  What  if  the  vision  tarry  ? 
God's  time  is  always  best  ; 
The  true  Light  shall  be  witnessed, 
The  Christ  within  confessed. 

"  In  mercy  or  in  judgment 
He  shall  turn  and  overturn, 

Till  the  heart  shall  be  his  temple 
Where  all  of  Him  shall  learn." 


THE  WITCH  OF  WENHAM. 


ALONG  Crane  River's  sunny  slopes, 
Blew  warm  the  winds  of  May, 

And  over  Naumkeag's  ancient  oaks 
The  green  outgrew  the  gray. 

Die  grass  was  green  on  Rial-side, 

The  early  birds  at  will 
Waked  up  the  violet  in  its  dell, 

The  wind-flower  on  its  hill. 

"  Where  go  you,  in  your  Sunday  coat 
Son  Andrew,  tell  me,  pray." 


"For  striped  perch  in  Wenham  Lake 
I  go  to  fish' to-day. " 

"  Unharmed  of  thee  in  Wenham  Lake 
The  mottled  perch  shall  be  : 

A  blue -eyed  witch  sits  on  the  bank 
And  weaves  her  net  for  thee. 

' '  She  weaves  her  golden  hair  ;  she  sings 
Her  spell- song  low  and  faint  ; 

The  wickedest  witch  in  Salem  jail 
Is  to  that  girl  a  saint." 

"  Nay,  mother,  hold  thy  cruel  tongue  ; 

God  knows,"  the  young  man  cried, 
"  He  never  made  a  whiter  soul 

Than  hers  by  Wenham  side. 

"  She  tends  her  mother  sick  and  blind, 

And  every  want  supplies  ; 
To  her  above  the  blessed  Book 

She  lends  her  soft  blue  eyes. 

"  Her  voice  is  glad  with  holy  songs, 
Her  lips  are  sweet  with  prayer  ; 

Go  where  you  will,  in  ten  miles  round 
Is  none  more  good  and  fair." 

"  Son  Andrew,  for  the  love  of  God 

And  of  thy  mother,  stay  !  " 
She  clasped  her  hands,  she  wept  aloud, 

But  Andrew  rode  away. 

"  0  reverend  sir,  my  Andrew's  soul 
The  Wenham  witch  has  caught  ; 

She  holds  him  with  the  curled  gold 
Whereof  her  snare  is  wrought. 

"She  charms  him  with  her  great  blue 
eyes, 

She  binds  him  with  her  hair  ; 
Oh,  break  the  spell  with  holy  words, 

Unbind  him  with  a  prayer  !  " 

"  Take  heart,"  the  painful  preacher  said, 
"  This  mischief  shall  not  be  ; 

The  witch  shall  perish  in  her  sins 
And  Andrew  shall  go  free. 

"  Our  poor  Ann  Putnam  testifies 

She  saw  her  weave  a  spell, 
Bare-armed,  loose-haired,  at  full  of  moon, 

Around  a  dried-up  well. 

"  '  Spring  up,  0  well  !  '  she  softly  sang 
The  Hebrew's  old  refrain 


402 


THE  WITCH   OF  WENHAM. 


(For  Satan  uses  Bible  words), 
Till  water  flowed  amain. 

"And  many  a  goodwife  heard  her  s 

By  Wenham  water  words 
That  made  the  buttercups  take  wings 

And  turn  to  yellow  birds. 


"  They  say  that  swarming  wild  bees  seek 

The  hive  at  her  command  : 
And  fishes  swim  to  take  their  food 

From  out  her  dainty  hand. 

' '  Meek  as  she  sits  in  meeting-time, 

The  godly  minister 
Notes  well  the  spell  that  doth  compel 

The  young  men's  eyes  to  her. 

' '  The  mole  upon  her  dimpled  chin 

Is  Satan's  seal  and  sign  ; 
Her  lips  are  red  with  evil  bread 

And  stain  of  unblest  wine. 

"For  Tituba,  my  Indian,  saith 

At  Quasycung  she  took 
The  Black  Man's  godless  sacrament 

And  signed  his  dreadful  book. 

"  Last  night  my  sore -afflicted  child 
Against  the  young  witch  cried. 

To  take  her  Marshal  Herrick  rides 
Even  now  to  Wenham  side." 

The  marshal  in  his  saddle  sat, 

His  daughter  at  his  knee  ; 
"  I  go  to  fetch  that  arrant  witch, 

Thy  fair  playmate,"  quoth  he. 

"  Her  spectre  walks  the  parsonage, 
And  haunts  both  hall  and  stair  ; 

They  know  her  by  the  great  blue  eyes 
And  floating  gold  of  hair." 

"  They  lie,  they  lie,  my  father  dear  ! 

No  foul  old  witch  is  she, 
But  sweet  and  good  and  crystal-pure 

As  Wenham  waters  be." 

"  I  tell  thee,  child,  the  Lord  hath  set 

Before  us  good  and  ill, 
And  woe  to  all  whose  carnal  loves 

Oppose  his  righteous  will. 

"  Between  Him  and  the  powers  of  hell 
Choose  thou,  my  child,  to-day  : 

No  sparing  hand,  no  pitying  eye, 
When  God  commands  to  slay  !  " 


He  went  his  way  ;  the  old  wives  shook 

With  fear  as  he  drew  nigh  ; 
The  children  in  the  dooryards  held 

Their  breath  as  he  passed  by. 

Too  well  they  knew  the  gaunt  gray  horse 
The  grim  witch-hunter  rode  — 

The  pale  Apocalyptic  beast 
By  grisly  Death  bestrode 


ii. 


Oh,  fair  the  face  of  Wenham  Lake 
Upon  the  young  girl's  shone, 

Her  tender  mouth,  her  dreaming  ey 
Her  yellow  hair  outblown. 

By  happy  youth  and  love  attuned 

To  natural  harmonies, 
The  singing  birds,  the  whispering  wind, 

She  sat  beneath  the  trees. 

Sat  shaping  for  her  bridal  dress 
Her  mother's  wedding  gown, 

When  lo  !  the  marshal,  writ  in  hand. 
From  Alford  hill  rode  down. 

His  face  was  hard  with  cruel  fear, 
He  grasped  the  maiden's  hands  : 

"  Come  with  me  unto  Salem  town, 
For  so  the  law  commands  !  " 

"  Oh,  let  me  to  my  mother  say 

Farewell  before  I  go  ! " 
He  closer  tied  her  little  hands 

Unto  his  saddle  bow. 

"  Unhand  me,"  cried  she  piteously, 
"For  thy  sweet  daughter's  sake." 

"  I  '11  keep  my  daughter  safe,"  he  said, 
"From  the  witch  of  Wenham  Lake." 


"  Oh,  leave  me  for  my  mother's 

She  needs  my  eyes  to  see." 
"Those  eyes,  young  witch,  the  crows 
shall  peck 

From  off  the  gallows-tree." 

He  bore  her  to  a  farm-house  old, 

And  up  its  stairway  long, 
And  closed  on  her  the  garret- door 

With  iron  bolted  strong. 

The    day   died    out,    the    night    came 

down  : 
Her  evening  prayer  she  said, 


THE  WITCH   OF  WEN  HAM. 


403 


While,  through  the  dark,  strange  faces 

seemed 
To  mock  her  as  she  prayed. 

The  present  horror  deepened  all 
The  fears  her  childhood  knew  ; 

The  awe  wherewith  the  air  was  filled 
With  every  breath  she  drew. 

And  could  it  be,  she  trembling  asked, 

Some  secret  thought  or  sin 
Had  shut  good  angels  from  her  heart 

And  let  the  bad  ones  in  ? 

Had  she  in  some  forgotten  dream 

Let  go  her  hold  on  Heaven, 
And  sold  herself  unwittingly 

To  spirits  nnforgiven  ? 

Oh,    weird    and    still  the   dark    hours 
passed  ; 

No  human  sound  she  heard, 
But  up  and  down  the  chimney  stack 

The  swallows  moaned  and  stirred. 

And  o'er  her,  with  a  dread  surmise 

Of  evil  sight  and  sound, 
The  blind  bats  on  their  leathern  wings 

Went  wheeling  round  and  round. 

Low  hanging  in  the  midnight  sky 
Looked  in  a  half-faced  moon. 

Was  it  a  dream,  or  did  she  hear 
Her  lover's  whistled  tune  ? 

She  forced  the  oaken  scuttle  back  ; 

A  whisper  reached  her  ear  : 
"  Slide  down  the  roof  to  me,"  it  said, 

"  So  softly  none  may  hear." 

She  slid  along  the  sloping  roof 
Till  from  its  eaves  she  hung, 

And  felt  the  loosened  shingles  yield 
To  which  her  fingers  clung. 

Below,  her  lover  stretched  his  hands 
And  touched  her  feet  so  small ; 

"  Drop  down  to  me,  dear  heart,"  he  said, 
"  My  arms  shall  break  the  fall." 

He  set  her  on  his  pillion  soft, 
Her  arms  about  him  twined  ; 

And,  noiseless  as  if  velvet-shod, 
They  left  the  house  behind. 

But  when  they  re-ached  the  open  way, 
Full  free  the  rein  he  cast ; 


Oh,  never  through  the  mirk  midnight 
Rode  man  and  maid  more  fast. 

Along  the  wild  wood-paths  they  sped, 
The  bridgeless  streams  they  swam  ; 

At  set  of  moon  they  passed  the  Bass, 
At  sunrise  Agawam. 

At  high  noon  on  the  Merrimac 

The  ancient  ferryman 
Forgot,  at  times,  his  idle  oars, 

So  fair  a  freight  to  scan. 

And  when  from  off  his  grounded  boat 
He  saw  them  mount  and  ride, 

"  God  keep  her  from  the  evil  eye, 
And  harm  of  witch  !  "  he  cried. 

The    maiden    laughed,    as   youth   will 
laugh 

At  all  its  fears  gone  by  ; 
"  He  does  not  know,"  she  whispered  low, 

"A  little  witch  am  I." 

All  day  he  urged  his  weary  horse, 

And,  in  the  red  sundown, 
Drew  rein  before  a  friendly  door 

In  distant  Berwick  town. 

A  fellow-feeling  for  the  wronged 

The  Quaker  people  felt ; 
And  safe  beside  their  kindly  hearths 

The  hunted  maiden  dwelt, 

Until  from  off  its  breast  the  land 

The  haunting  horror  threw, 
And  hatred,  born  of  ghastly  dreams, 

To  shame  and  pity  grew. 

Sad  were  the  year's  spring  morns,  and 
sad 

Its  golden  summer  day, 
But  blithe  and  glad  its  withered  fields, 

And  skies  of  ashen  gray  ; 

For  spell  and  charm  had  power  no  more, 
The  spectres  ceased  to  roam, 

And  scattered  households  knelt  again 
Around  the  hearths  of  home. 

And  when  once  more  by  Beaver  Dam 

The  meadow-lark  outsang. 
And  once  again  on  all  the  hills 

The  early  violets  sprang, 

And  all  the  windy  pasture  slopes 
Lay  green  within  the  arms 


404 


SUNSET  ON  THE  BEARCAMP. 


Of  creeks  that  bore  the  salted  sea 
To  pleasant  inland  farms, 

The  smith  filed  off'  the  chains  he  forged, 
The  jail-bolts  backward  fell ; 

And  youth  and  hoary  age  came  forth 
Like  souls  escaped  from  hell. 


SUNSET   ON   THE   BEARCAMP. 

A  GOLD  fringe  on  the  purpling  hem 

Of  hills  the  river  runs 
As  down  its  long,  green  valley  falls 

The  last  of  summer's  suns. 
Along  its  tawny  gravel-bed 

Broad-flowing,  swift,  and  still, 
As  if  its  meadow  levels  felt 

The  hurry  of  the  hill, 
Noiseless  between  its  banks  of  green 

From  curve  to  curve  it  slips  ; 
The  drowsy  maple-shadows  rest 

Like  fingers  on  its  lips. 
A  waif  from  Carroll's  wildest  hills, 

Unstoried  and  unknown  ; 
The  ursine  legend  of  its  name 

Prowls  on  its  banks  alone, 
Yet  flowers  as  fair  its  slopes  adorn 

As  ever  Yarrow  knew, 
Or,  under  rainy  Irish  skies, 

By  Spenser's  Mulla  grew  ; 
And  through  the  gaps  of  leaning  trees 

Its  mountain  cradle  shows  : 
The  gold  against  the  amethyst, 

The  green  against  the  rose. 

Touched  by  a  light  that  hath  no  name, 

A  glory  never  sung, 
Aloft  on  sky  and  mountain  wall 

Are  God's  great  pictures  hung. 
How  changed  the  summits  vast  and  old  ! 

No  longer  granite-browed, 
They  melt  in  rosy  mist  ;  the  rock 

Is  softer  than  the  cloud  ; 
The  valley  holds  its  breath  ;  no  leaf 

Of  all  its  elms  is  twirled  : 
The  silence  of  eternity 

Seems  falling  on  the  world. 

The  pause  before  the  breaking  seals 

Of  mystery  is  this  ; 
Yon  miracle-play  of  night  and  day 

Makes  dumb  its  witnesses. 
What  unseen  altar  crowns  the  hills 

That  reach  up  stair  on  stair  ? 


What  eyes  look  through,    what  white 

wings  fan 

These  purple  veils  of  air  ? 
What     Presence     from     the     heavenly 

heights 

To  those  of  earth  stoops  down  ? 
Not  vainly  Hellas  dreamed  of  gods 
On  Ida's  snowy  crown  ! 

Slow  fades  the  vision  of  the  sky, 

The  golden  water  pales, 
And  over  all  the  valley-land 

A  gray-winged  vapor  sails. 
I  go  the  common  way  of  all ; 

The  sunset  fires  will  burn, 
The  flowers  will  blow,  the  river  flow, 

When  I  no  more  return. 
No  whisper  from  the  mountain  pine 

Nor  lapsing  stream  shall  tell 
The  stranger,  treading  where;  I  tread, 

Of  him  who  loved  them  well. 
But  beauty  seen  is  never  lost, 

God's  colors  all  are  fast ; 
The  glory  of  this  sunset  heaven 

Into  my  soul  has  passed,  — 
A  sense  of  gladness  unconfined 

To  mortal  date  or  clime  ; 
As  the  soul  liveth,  it  shall  live 

Beyond  the  years  of  time. 
Beside  the  mystic  asphodels 

Shall  bloom  the  home -born  flowers, 
And  new  horizons  flush  and  glow 

With  sunset  hues  of  ours. 

Farewell  !  these  smiling  hills  must  weal 

Too  soon  their  wintry  frown, 
And  snow-cold  winds  from  off  them  shake 


The  maple's  red  leaves  down. 
But  I  shall  see  a  summer  snn 


map! 
shall 

Still  setting  broad  and  low  ; 
The  mountain   slopes   shall   blush  and 

bloom, 

The  golden  water  flow. 
A  lover's  claim  is  mine  on  all 

I  see  to  have  and  hold,  — 
The  rose-light  of  perpetual  hills, 
And  sunsets  never  cold  ! 


THE  SEEKING  OF  THE   WATER 
FALL. 

THEY  left  their  home  of  summer  ease 
Beneath  the  lowland's  sheltering  trees, 
To  seek,  by  ways  unknown  to  all, 
The  promise  of  the  waterfall. 


1  And  still  the  water  sang  the  sweet 
Glad  song."     Page  405. 


THE   SEEKING   OF  THE  WATERFALL. 


405 


Some  vague,  faint  rumor  to  the^vale 
Had  crept  —  perchance  a  hunter's  tale  — 
Of  its  wild  mirth  of  waters  lost 
On   the   dark  woods  through  which   it 

tossed. 

Somewhere  it  laughed  and  sang  ;  some 
where 

Whirled  in  mad  dance  its  misty  hair  ; 
But  who  had  raised  its  veil,  or  seen 
The  rainbow  skirts  of  that  Undine  ? 

They  sought  it  where  the  mountain  brook 
Its  swift  way  to  the  valley  took  ; 
Along  the  rugged  slope  they  clomb, 
Their  guide  a  thread  of  sound  and  foam. 

Height  after  height  they  slowly  won  ; 
The  fiery  javelins  of  the  sun 
Smote  the  bare  ledge  ;  the  tangled  shade 
With  rock  and  vine  their  steps  delayed. 

But,   through  leaf-openings,    now  and 

then 

They  saw  the  cheerful  homes  of  men, 
And  the  great  mountains  with  their  wall 
Of  misty  purple  girdling  all. 

The  leaves  through  which  the  glad  winds 

blew 

Shared  the  wild  dance  the  waters  knew  ; 
And  where  the  shadows  deepest  fell 
The  wood-thrush  rang  his  silver  bell. 

Fringing  the  stream,  at  every  turn 
Swung  low  the  waving  fronds  of  fern  ; 
From  stony  cleft  and  mossy  sod 
Pale  asters  sprang,  and  golden-rod. 

And  still  the  water  sang  the  sweet, 
Glad  song  that  stirred  its  gliding  feet, 
And  found  in  rock  and  root  the  keys 
Of  its  beguiling  melodies. 

Beyond,  above,  its  signals  flew 
Of  tossing  foam  the  birch-trees  through  ; 
Now  seen,  now  lost,  but  baffling  still 
The  weaiy  seekers'  slackening  will. 

Each  called  to  each  :    "  Lo  here  !   Lo 

there  ! 

Its  white  scarf  flutters  in  the  air  !  " 
They  climbed  anew  ;  the  vision  fled, 
To  beckon  higher  overhead. 

So  toiled  they  up  the  mountain -slope 
With  faint  and  ever  fainter  hope  ; 


With  faint  and  fainter  voice  the  brook 
Still  bade  them  listen,  pause,  and  look- 
Meanwhile  below  the  day  was  done  ; 
Above  the  tall  peaks  saw  the  sun 
Sink,  beam-shorn,  to  its  misty  set 
Behind  the  hills  of  violet. 

"Here  ends  our  quest!"   the  seekers 

cried, 

' '  The  brook  and  rumor  both  have  lied  ] 
The  phantom  of  a  waterfall 
Has  led  us  at  its  beck  and  call." 

But  one,  with  years  grown  wiser,  said  : 
' '  So,  always  baffled,  not  misled, 
We  follow  Where  before  iis  runs 
The  vision  of  the  shining  ones. 

"  Not  where  they  seem  their  signals  fly, 
Their  voices  while  we  listen  die  ; 
We  cannot  keep,  however  fleet, 
The  quick  time  of  their  winged  feet. 

"  From  youth  to  age  unresting  stray 
These  kindly  mockers  in  our  way  ; 
Yet  lead  they  not,  the  baffling  elves, 
To  something  better  than  themselves  ? 

' '  Here,  though  unreached  the  goal  we 

sought, 

Its  own  reward  our  toil  has  brought  : 
The  winding  water's  sounding  rush, 
The  long  note  of  the  hermit  thrush, 

"The   turquoise    lakes,  the  glimpse  of 

pond 

And  river  track,  and,  vast,  beyond 
Broad  meadows  belted  round  with  pines, 
The  grand  uplift  of  mountain  lines  ! 

"  What  matter  though  we  seek  with  pain 
The  garden  of  the  gods  in  vain, 
If  lured  thereby  we  climb  to  greet 
Some  wayside  blossom  Eden-sweet  ? 

"  To  seek  is  better  than  to  gain, 
The  fond  hope  dies  as  we  attain  ; 
Life's  fairest  things  are  those  which  seerr^ 
The  best  is  that  of  which  we  dream. 

"  Then  let  us  trust  our  waterfall 
Still  flashes  down  its  rocky  wall, 
With  rainbow  crescent  curved  across 
Its  sunlit  spray  from  moss  to  moss. 


406 


JUNE   ON   THE   MERRIMAC. 


"  And  we,  forgetful  of  our  pain, 
In  thought  shall  seek  it  oft  again  ; 
.Shall  see  this  aster-blossomed  sod, 
This  sunshine  of  the  golden-rod, 

"And    haply    gain,    through     parting 

boughs, 

Grand  glimpses  of  great  mountain  brows 
Cleud-turbaned,  amltheskarp  steel  sheen 
Of  lakes  deep  set  in  valleys  green. 

"  So  failure  wins  ;  the  consequence 
Of  loss  becomes  its  recompense  ; 
And  evermore  the  end  shall  tell 
The  unreached  ideal  guided  well. 

"  Our  sweet  illusions  only  die 
Ful tilling  love's  sure  prophecy  ; 
And  every  wish  for  better  things 
An  undreamed  beauty  nearer  brings. 

' '  For  fate  is  servitor  of  love  ; 
Desire  and  hope  and  longing  prove 
The  secret  of  immortal  youth, 
And  Nature  cheats  us  into  truth. 

"  0  kind  allurers,  wisely  sent, 
"Beguiling  with  benign  intent, 
Still  move  us,  through  divine  unrest, 
To  seek  the  loveliest  and  the  best ! 

"  Go  with  us  Avhen  our  souls  go  free, 
And,  in  the  clear,  white  light  to  be, 
Add  unto  Heaven's  beatitude 
The  old  delight  of  seeking  good  !  " 


JUNE  ON  THE  MERRIMAC. 

0  DWELLERS  in  the  stately  towns, 

What  come  ye  out  to  see  ? 
This  common  earth,  this  common  sky, 

This  water  flowing  free  ? 

As  gayly  as  these  kalmia  flowers 
Your  door-yard  blossoms  spring  ; 

As  sweetly  as  these  wild  wood  birds 
Your  caged  minstrels  sing. 

You  find  but  common  bloem  and  green, 

The  rippling  river's  rune, 
The  beauty  which  is  everywhere 

Beneath  the  skies  of  June  ; 

The   Hawkswood   oaks,  the   storm-torn 

plumes 
Of  old  pine-forest  kings, 


Beneath  whose  century- woven  shade 
Deer  Island's  mistress  sings. 

And  here  are  pictured  Artichoke, 

And  Curson's  bowery  mill  ; 
And  Pleasant  Valley  smiles  between 

The  river  and  the  hill. 

You  know  full  well  these  banks  of  bloom, 

The  upland's  wavy  line, 
And  how  the  sunshine  tips  with  fire 

The  needles  of  the  pine. 

Yet,  like  some  old  remembered  psalm, 

Or  sweet,  familiar  face, 
Not  less  because  of  commonness 

You  love  the  day  and  place. 

And  not  in  vain  in  this  soft  air 
Shall  hard-strung  nerves  relax, 

Not  all  in  vain  the  o'erworn  brain 
Forego  its  daily  tax. 

The  lust  of  power,  the  greed  of  gain 
Have  all  the  year  their  own  ; 

The  haunting  demons  well  may  let 
Our  one  bright  day  alone. 

Unheeded  let  the  newsboy  call, 

Aside  the  ledger  lay  : 
The  world  will  keep  its  tread-mill  step 

Though  we  fall  out  to-day. 

The  truants  of  life's  weary  school, 

Without  excuse  from  thrift 
We  change  for  once  the  gains  of  toil 

For  God's  unpurchased  gift. 

From  ceiled  rooms,  from  silent  books, 
From  crowded  car  and  town, 

Dear  Mother  Earth,  upon  thy  lap, 
We  lay  our  tired  heads  down. 

Cool,  summer  wind,  our  heated  brows  ; 

Blue  river,  through  the  green 
Of  clustering  pines,  refresh  the  eyes 

Which  all  too  much  kave  seen. 

For  us  these  pleasant  woodland  ways 
Are  thronged  with  memories  old, 

Have  felt  the  grasp  of  friendly  hands 
And  heard  love's  story  told. 

A  sacred  presence  overbroods 
The  earth  whereon  we  meet  ; 

These  winding  forest-paths  are  trod 
By  more  than  mortal  feet 


HYMN   OF   THE   BUNKERS. 


407 


Old  friends  called  from  us  by  the  voice 
Which  they  alone  could  hear, 

From  mystery  to  mystery, 
From  life  to  life,  draw  near. 

More  closely  for  the  sake  of  them 
Each  other's  hands  we  press  ; 

Our  voices  take  from  them  a  tone 
Of  deeper  tenderness. 

Our  joy  is  theirs,  their  trust  is  ours, 

Alike  below,  above, 
Or  here  or  there,  about  us  fold 

The  arms  of  one  great  love  ! 

We  ask  to-day  no  countersign, 

No  party  names  we  own  ; 
Unlabelled,  individual, 

We  bring  ourselves  alone. 

What  cares  the  unconventioned  wood 
For  pass-words  of  the  town  ? 

The  sound  of  fashion's  shibboleth 
The  laughing  waters  drown. 

Here  Cant  forgets  his  dreary  tone, 

And  care  his  face  forlorn  ; 
The  liberal  air  and  sunshine  laugh 

The  bigot's  zeal  to  scorn. 

From  manhood's  weary  shoulder  falls 

His  load  of  selfish  cares  ; 
And  woman  takes  her  rights  as  flowers 

And  brooks  and  birds  take  theirs. 

The  license  of  the  happy  woods, 
The  brook's  release  are  ours  ; 

The  freedom  of  the  unshamed  wind 
Among  the  glad-eyed  flowers. 

Yet  here  no  evil  thought  finds  place, 
Nor  foot  profane  comes  in  ; 

Our  grove,  like  that  of  Samothrace, 
Is  set  apart  from  sin. 

We  walk  on  holy  ground  ;  above 

A  sky  more  holy  smiles  ; 
The  chant  of  the  beatitudes 

Swells  down  these  leafy  aisles. 

Thanks  to  the  gracious  Providence 
That  brings  us  here  once  more  ; 

For  memories  of  the  good  behind 
And  hopes  of  good  before  ! 

A.nd  if,  unknown  to  us,  sweet  days 
Of  June  like  this  must  come, 


Unseen  of  us  these  laurels  clothe 
The  river-banks,  with  bloom  ; 

And  these  green  paths  must  soon  be  trod 

By  other  feet  than  ours, 
Full  long  may  annual  pilgrims  come 

To  keep  the  Feast  of  Flowers  ; 

The  matron  be  a  girl  once  more, 

The  bearded  man  a  boy, 
And  we,  in  heaven's  eternal  June, 

Be  glad  for  earthly  joy  ! 


HYMN  OF  THE  DUNKEKS. 

KLOSTER  KEDAR,   EPHRATA,   PENNSYL 
VANIA  (1738). 

SISTER   MARIA   CHRISTIANA   Sings. 

WAKE,  sisters,  wake  !  the  day-star  shines ; 
Above  Ephrata's  eastern  pines 
The  dawn  is  breaking,  cool  and  calm. 
Wake,  sisters,  wake  to  prayer  and  psalm ! 

Praised  be  the  Lord  for  shade  and  light, 
For  toil  by  day,  for  rest  by  night  ! 
Praised  be  His  name  who  deigns  to  bless 
Our  Kedar  of  the  wilderness  !  — 

Our  refuge  when  the  spoiler's  hand 
Was  heavy  on  our  native  land  ; 
And  freedom,  to  her  children  due, 
The  wolf  and  vulture  only  knew. 

We  praised  Him  when  to  prison  led, 
We  owned  Him  when  the  stake  blazed 

red  ; 

We  knew,  whatever  might  befall, 
His  love  and  power  were  over  all. 

He  heard  our  prayers  ;  with  outstretched 

arm 

He  led  us  forth  from  cruel  harm  ; 
Still,  wheresoe'er  our  steps  were  bent, 
His  cloud  and  fire  before  us  went  ! 

The  watch  of  faith  and  prayer  He  set, 
We  kept  it  then,  we  keep  it  yet. 
At  midnight,  crow  of  cock,  or  noon, 
He  cometh  sure,  He  cometh  soon. 

He  comes  to  chasten,  not  destroy, 
To  purge  the  earth  from  sin's  alloy, 
At  last,  at  last  shall  all  confess 
His  mercy  as  His  righteousness. 


408 


IN   THE   "  OLD    SOUTH.' 


The  dead  shall  live,  the  sick  be  whole, 
The  scarlet  sin  be  white  as  wool ; 
No  discord  mar  below,  above, 
The  music  of  eternal  love  ! 

Sound,  welcome  trump,  the  last  alarm  ! 
Lord  God  of  hosts,  make  bare  thine  arm, 
Fulfil  this  day  our  long  desire, 
Make  sweet  aiid  clean  the  world  with  lire ! 

Sweep,  flaming  besom,  sweep  from  sight 
The  lies  of  time  ;  be  swift  to  smite, 
Sharp  sword  of  God,  all  idols  down, 
Genevan  creed  and  Roman  crown. 

Quake,  earth,  through  all  thy  zones,  till 

all 

The  fanes  of  pride  and  priestcraft  fall  ; 
And  lift  thou  up  in  place  of  them 
Thy  gates  of  pearl,  Jerusalem  ! 

Lo  !  rising  from  baptismal  flame, 
Transfigured,  glorious,  yet  the  same, 
Within  the  heavenly  city's  bound 
Our  Kloster  Kedar  shall  be  found. 

He  cometh  soon  !  at  dawn  or  noon 
Or  set  of  sun,  He  cometh  soon. 
Our  prayers  shall  meet  Him  on  his  way  ; 
Wake,  sisters,  wake  !  arise  and  pray  ! 


IN  THE  "OLD  SOUTH." 
1677. 

SHE  came  and  stood  in  the  Old  South 
Church, 

A  wonder  and  a  sign, 
With  a  look  the  old-time  sibyls  wore, 

Half-crazed  and  half-divine. 

Bave  the  mournful  sackcloth  about  her 

wound 

Unclothed  as  the  primal  mother, 
With  limbs  that  trembled  and  eyes  that 

blazed 
With  a  fire  she  dared  not  smother. 

Loose  on  her  shoulders  fell  her  hair 

With  sprinkled  ashes  gray, 
She  stood  in  the  broad  aisle  strange  and 
weird 

As  a  soul  at  the  judgment  day. 


And  the  minister  paused  in  his  sermon's 

midst, 

And  the  people  held  their  breath, 
For  these  were  the  words  the  maiden 

spoke 
Through  lips  as  pale  as  death  : 

"  Thus  saith  the  Lord,  with  equal  feet 
All  men  my  courts  shall  tread, 

And  priest  and  ruler  no  more  shall  eat 
My  people  up  like  bread  ! 

"  Repent  !  repent  !    ere  the  Lord  shall 
speak 

In  thunder  and  breaking  seals  ! 
Let  all  souls  worship  Him  in  the  way 

His  light  within  reveals." 

She  shook  the  dust  from  her  naked  feet, 
And  her  sackcloth  closer  drew, 

And  into  the  porch  of  the  awe-hushed 

church 
She  passed  like  a  ghost  from  view. 

They  whipped  her  away  at  the  tail  o'  the 

cart 

Through  half  the  streets  of  the  town, 
But  the  words  she  uttered  that  day  nor 

fire 
Could  burn  nor  water  drown. 

And  now  the  aisles  of  the  ancient  church 

By  equal  feet  are  trod, 
And  the  bell  that  swings  in  its  belfry 
rings 

Freedom  to  worship  God  ! 

And  now  whenever  a  wrong  is  done 
It  thrills  the  conscious  walls  ; 

The  stone  from  the  basement  cries  aloud 
And  the  beam  from  the  timber  calls. 

There  are  steeple-houses  on  every  hand, 
And  pulpits  that  bless  and  ban, 

And  the  Lord  will  not  grudge  the  single 

church 
That  is  set  apart  for  man. 

For  in  two  commandments  are  all  the  law 
And  the  prophets  under  the  sun, 

And  the  first  is  last  and  the  last  is  first. 
And  the  twain  are  verily  one. 

So,  long  as  Boston  shall  Boston  be, 
And  her  bay-tides  rise  and  fall, 

Shall  freedom  stand  in  the  Old  South 

Church 
And  plead  for  the  rights  of  all  ! 


LEXINGTON.  —  CENTENNIAL   HYMN. 


409 


LEXINGTON. 
1775. 

No  Berserk  thirst  uf  blood  had  they, 
No  battle-joy  was  theirs,  who  set 
Against  the  alien  bayonet 

Their  homespun  breasts  in  that  old  day. 

Their  feet  had  trodden  peaceful  ways  ; 
They  loved  not  strife,  they  dreaded 

pain  ; 

They  saw  not,  what  to  us  is  plain,  _ 
That  God  would  make  man's  wrath  his 
praise. 

No  seers  were  they,  but  simple  men  ; 
Its  vast  results  the  future  hid  : 
The  meaning  of  the  work  they  did 

Was  strange  and  dark  and  doubtful  then. 

Swift  as  their  summons  came  they  left 
The  plow  mid-furrow  standing  still. 
The  half-ground  corn  grist  in  the  mill, 

The  spade  in  earth,  the  axe  in  cleft. 

They  went  where  duty  seemed  to  call, 
They  scarcely  asked  the  reason  why  ; 
They  only  knew  they  could  but  die, 

And  death  was  not  the  worst  of  all  ! 

Of  man  for  man  the  sacrifice, 

All  that  was  theirs  to  give,  they  gave. 

The  flowers  that  blossomed  from  their 

grave 
Have  sown  themselves  beneath  all  skies. 

Their  death-shot  shook  the  feudal  tower, 
And  shattered  slavery's  chain  as  well ; 
On  the  sky's  dome,  as  on  a  bell, 

Its  echo  struck  the  world's  great  hour. 

That  fateful  echo  is  not  dumb  : 
The  nations  listening  to  its  sound 
Wait,  from  a  century's  vantage-ground, 

The  holier  triumphs  yet  to  come,  — 

The  bridal  time  of  Law  and  Love, 
The  gladness  of  the  world's  release, 
When,  war-sick,  at  the  feet  of  Peace 

The  hawk  shall  nestle  with  the  dove  !  — 

The  golden  age  of  brotherhood 
Unknown  to  other  rivalries 
Than  of  the  mild  humanities, 

And  gracious  interchange  of  good, 


When  closer  strand  shall  lean  to  strand, 
Till  meet,  beneath  saluting  flags, 
The  eagle  of  our  mountain -crags, 

The  lion  of  our  Motherland  ! 


CENTENNIAL  HYMN. 


OUR  fathers'  God  !  from  out  whose  hand 
The  centuries  fall  like  grains  of  sand, 
We  meet  to-day,  united,  free, 
And  loyal  to  our  land  and  Thee, 
To  thank  Thee  for  the  era  done, 
And  trust  Thee  for  the  opening  one. 


Here,  where  of  old,  by  Thy  design, 
The  fathers  spake  that  word  of  Thine 
Whose  echo  is  the  glad  refrain 
Of  rended  bolt  and  falling  chain, 
To  grace  our  festal  time,  from  all 
The  zones  of  earth  our  guests  we  call. 


Be  with  us  while  the  New  World  greets 
The  Old  World  thronging  all  its  streets, 
Unveiling  all  the  triumphs  won 
By  art  or  toil  beneath  the  sun  ; 
And  unto  common  good  ordain 
This  rivalship  of  hand  and  brain. 

IV. 

Thou,  who  hast  heie  in  concord  furled 
The  war  flags  of  a  gathered  world, 
Beneath  our  Western  skies  fulfil 
The  Orient's  mission  of  good-will, 
And,  freighted  with  love's  Golden  Fleece, 
Send  back  its  Argonauts  of  peace. 


For  art  and  labor  met  in  truce, 
For  beauty  made  the  bride  of  use, 
We  thank  Thee  ;  but,  withal,  we  crave 
The  austere  virtues  strong  to  save, 
The  honor  proof  to  place  or  gold, 
The  manhood  never  bought  nor  sold  ! 

VI. 

Oh  make  Thou  us,   through  centuries 

long, 

In  peace  secure,  in  justice  strong ; 
Around  our  gift  of  freedom  draw 
The  safeguards  of  Thy  righteous  law  : 
And,  cast  in  some  diviner  mould, 
Let  the  new  cycle  shame  the  old  ! 


410 


TRIERS.  —  FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK. 


TRIERS. 


FATE  summoned,  in  gray-bearded  age, 

to  act 

A  history  stranger  than  his  written  fact, 
Him  who  portrayed  the  splendor  and 

the  gloom 
Of  that  great  hour  when  throne  and  altar 

fell 
With  long  death-groan  which  still  is 

audible. 
He,  when  around  the  walls  of  Paris 

rung 
The  Prussian  bugle  like  the  blast  of 

doom, 

And  every  ill  which  follows  unblest  war 
Maddened  all  France  from  Finistere  to 

Var, 
The  weight  of  fourscore  from  his 

shoulders  flung, 

And  guided  Freedom  in  the  path  he  saw 
Lead  out  of  chaos  into  light  and  law, 
Peace,  not  imperial,  but  republican, 
And  order  pledged  to  all  the  Rights  of 

Man. 


IT. 


Death  called  him  from  a  need  as  immi 
nent 
As  that  from  which  the  Silent  William 

went 
When  powers  of  evil,  like  the  smiting 

seas 

On  Holland's  dikes,  assailed  her  liberties. 
Sadly,  while  yet  in  doubtful  balance  hung 
The  weal  and  woe  of  France,  the  bells 

were  rung 

For  her  lost  leader.     Paralyzed  of  will, 
Above  his  bier  the  hearts  of  men  stood 

still. 

Then,  as  if  set  to  his  dead  lips,  the  horn 
Of  Roland  wound  once  more  to  rouse  and 

warn, 
The  old  voice  filled  the  air  !     His  last 

brave  word 
Not  vainly  France  to  all  her  boundaries 

stirred. 
Strong  as  in  life,  he  still  for  Freedom 

wrought, 
As  the  dead  Cid  at  red  Toloso  fought. 


FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK. 

AT  THE   UNVEILING   OF   HIS    STATUE. 

AMONG  their  graven  shapes  to  whom 

Thy  civic  wreaths  belong, 
0  city  of  his  love,  make  room 

For  one  whose  gift  was  song. 

Not  his  the  soldier's  sword  to  wield, 

Nor  his  the  helm  of  state, 
Nor  glory  of  the  stricken  field, 

Nor  triumph  of  debate. 

In  common  ways,  with  common  men, 
He  served  his  race  and  time 

As  well  as  if  his  clerkly  pen 
Had  never  danced  to  rhyme. 

If,  in  the  thronged  and  noisy  mart, 

The  Muses  found  their  son, 
Could  any  say  his  tuneful  art 

A  duty  left  undone  ? 

He  toiled  and  sang ;  and  year  by  year 
Men  found  their  homes  more  sweet, 

And  through  a  tenderer  atmosphere 
Looked  down  the  brick-walled  street. 

The    Greek's  wild    onset   Wall    Street 
knew  ; 

The  Red  King  walked  Broadway  ; 
And  Alnwick  Castle's  roses  blew 

From  Palisades  to  Bay. 

Fair  City  by  the  Sea  !  upraise 
His  veil  with  reverent  hands  ; 

And  mingle  with  thy  own  the  praise 
And  pride  of  other  lands. 

Let  Greece  his  fiery  lyric  breathe 

Above  her  hero-urns  ; 
And  Scotland,  with  her  holly,  wreathe 

The  flower  he  culled  for  Burns. 

0,  stately  stand  thy  palace  walls, 
Thy  tall  ships  ride  the  seas  ; 

To-day  thy  poet's  name  recalls 
A  prouder  thought  than  these. 

Not  less  thy  pulse  of  trade  shall  beat, 
Nor  less  thy  tall  fleets  swim, 

That  shaded  square  and  dusty  street 
Are  classic  ground  through  him. 


WILLIAM  FRANCIS   BARTLETT. — THE  TWO  ANGELS.          411 


Alive,  he  loved,  like  all  who  sing, 

The  echoes  of  his  song  ; 
Too  late  the  tardy  meed  we  bring, 

The  praise  delayed  so  long. 

Too  late,  alas  !     Of  all  who  knew 

The  living  man,  to-day 
Before  his  unveiled  face,  how  few 

Make  bare  their  locks  of  gray  ! 

Our  lips  of  praise  must  soon  be  dumb, 

Our  grateful  eyes  be  dim  ; 
0  brothers  of  the  days  to  come, 

Take  tender  charge  of  him  ! 

New  hands  the  wires  of  song  may  sweep, 
New  voices  challenge  fame  ; 

But  let  no  moss  of  years  o'ercreep 
The  lines  of  Halleck's  name. 


WILLIAM  FRANCIS  BARTLETT. 

O,  WELL  may  Essex  sit  forlorn 
Beside  her  sea-blown  shore  ; 

Her  well  beloved,  her  noblest  born, 
Is  hers  in  life  no  more  ! 

No  lapse  of  years  can  render  less 
Her  memory's  sacred  claim  ; 

No  fountain  of  forgetfulness 
Can  wet  the  lips  of  Fame. 

A  grief  alike  to  wound  and  heal, 
A  thought  to  soothe  and  pain, 

The  sad,  sweet  pride  that  mothers  feel 
To  her  must  still  remain. 

Good  men  and  true  she  has  not  lacked, 
And  brave  men  yet  shall  be  ; 

The  perfect  flower,  the  crowning  fact, 
Of  all  her  years  was  he  ! 

As  Galahad  pure,  as  Merlin  sage, 
What  worthier  knight  was  found 

To  grace  in  Arthur's  golden  age 
The  fabled  Table  Round  ? 

A  voice,  the  battle's  trumpet-note, 

To  welcome  and  restore  ; 
A  hand,  that  all  unwilling  smote, 

To  heal  and  build  once  more  ! 

A  soul  of  fire,  a  tender  heart 
Too  warm  for  hate,  he  knew 


The  generous  victor's  graceful  part 
To  sheathe  the  sword  he  drew. 

When  Earth,  as  if  on  evil  dreams, 

Looks  back  upon  her  wars, 
And  the  white  light  of  Christ  outstreams 

From  the  red  disk  of  Mars, 

His  fame  who  led  the  stormy  van 

Of  battle  well  may  cease, 
But  never  that  which  crowns  the  man 

Whose  victory  was  Peace. 

Mourn,  Essex,  on  thy  sea-blown  shore 

Thy  beautiful  and  brave, 
Whose  failing  hand  the  olive  bore, 

Whose  dying  lips  forgave  ! 

Let  age  lament  the  youthful  chief, 

And  tender  eyes  be  dim  ; 
The  tears  are  more  of  joy  than  grief 

That  fall  for  one  like  him  ! 


THE  TWO  ANGELS. 

GOD  called  the  nearest  angels  who  dwell 

with  Him  above  : 
The  tenderest  one  was  Pity,  the  dearest 

one  was  Love. 

"  Arise,"  He  said,  "  my  angels  !  a  wail 

of  woe  and  sin 
Steals  through  the  gates  of  heaven,  arid 

saddens  all  within. 

"My  harps  take  up  the  mournful  strain 
that  from  a  lost  world  swells, 

The  smoke  of  torment  clouds  the  light 
and  blights  the  asphodels. 

"Fly  downward  to  that  under  world, 
and  on  its  souls  of  pain 

Let  Love  drop  smiles  like  sunshine,  and 
Pity  tears  like  rain  !  " 

Two  faces  bowed  before  the  Throne,  veiled 

in  their  golden  hair  ; 
Four  white  wings  lessened  swiftly  down 

the  dark  abyss  of  air. 

The  way  was  strange,  the  flight  was 
long  ;  at  last  the  angels  came 

Where  swung  the  lost  and  nether  world, 
red-wrapped  in  rayless  flame. 


412 


THE   LIBRARY.  —  THE   HENCHMAN. 


There  Pity,  shuddering,  wept ;  but  Love, 
with  faith  too  strong  for  fear, 

Took  heart  from  God's  almightiness  and 
smiled  a  smile  of  cheer. 

And  lo  !  that  tear  of  Pity  quenched  the 

llanie  whereon  it  fell, 
And,  with  the  sunshine  of  that  smile, 

hope  entered  into  hell  ! 

Two  unveiled  faces  full  of  joy  looked  up 
ward  to  the  Throne, 

Four  white  wings  folded  at  the  feet  of 
Him  who  sat  thereon  ! 

And  deeper  than  the  sound  of  seas,  more 

soft  than  falling  flake, 
Amidst  the  hush  of  wing  and  song  the 

Voice  Eternal  spake  : 

"Welcome,  my  angels  !  ye  have  brought 

a  holier  joy  to  heaven  ; 
Henceforth  its  sweetest  song  shall  be  the 
)  song  of  sin  forgiven  !  " 


THE  LIBRAKY. 

SUNG  AT  THE  OPENING   OF  THE  HAVER- 
HILL    LIBRARY. 

"  LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT  !  "  God  spake  of 

old, 

And  over  chaos  dark  and  cold, 
And,   through  the  dead    and    formless 

frame 
Of  nature,  life  and  order  came. 

Faint  was  the  light  at  first  that  shone 
On  giant  fern  and  mastodon, 
On  half-formed  plant  and  beast  of  prey, 
And  man  as  rude  and  wild  as  they. 

Age  after  age,  like  waves,  o'erran 
The  earth,  uplifting  brute  arid  man  ; 
And  mind,  at  length,  in  symbols  dark 
Its  meanings  traced  on  stone  and  bark. 

On  leaf  of  palm,  on  sedge-wrought  roll, 
On  plastic  clay  and  leathern  scroll, 
Man  wrote  his  thoughts ;  the  ages  passed, 
And  lo  !  the  Press  was  found  at  last  ! 

Then  dead  souls  woke  ;  the  thoughts  of 

men 
Whose  bones  were  dust  revived  again  ; 


The  cloister's  silence  found  a  tongue, 
Old  prophets  spake,  old  poets  sung. 

And  here,  to-day,  the  dead  look  downk 
The  kings  of  mind  again  we  crown  ; 
We  hear  the  voices  lost  so  long, 
The  sage's  word,  the  sibyl's  song. 

Here  Greek  and  Koman  find  themselves 
Alive  along  these  crowded  shelves  ; 
And  Shakespeare  treads  again  his  stage 
And  Chaucer  paints  anew  his  age. 

As  if  some  Pantheon's  marbles  broke 
Their  stony  trance,  and  lived  and  spoke, 
Life  thrills  along  the  alcoved  hall, 
The  lords  of  thought  await  our  call  ! 


THE  HENCHMAN. 

MY  lady  walks  her  morning  round, 
My  lady's  page  her  fleet  greyhound 
My  lady's  hair  the  fond  winds  stir, 
And  all  the  birds  make  songs  for  her. 

Her  thrushes  sing  in  Rathburn  bowers, 
And  Rathburn  side  is  gay  with  flowers  ; 
But  ne'er  like  hers,  in  flower  or  bird, 
Was  beauty  seen  or  music  heard. 

The  distance  of  the  stars  is  hers  ; 
The  least  of  all  her  worshippers, 
The  dust  beneath  her  dainty  heel, 
She  knows  not  that  I  see  or  feel. 

0  proud  and  calm  !  —  she  cannot  know 
Where'er  she  goes  with  her  I  go  ; 

0  cold  and  fair  !  —  she  cannot  guess 

1  kneel  to  share  her  bound's  caress  ! 

Gay  knights  beside  her  hunt  and  hawk, 
1  rob  their  ears  of  her  sweet  talk  ; 
Her  suitors  come  from  east  and  west, 
I  steal  her  smiles  from  every  guest. 

Unheard  of  her,  in  loving  words. 
1  greet  her  with  the  song  of  birds  ; 
1  reach  her  with  her  green-armed  bowers, 
I  kiss  her  with  the  lips  of  flowers. 

The  hound  and  I  are  on  her  trail, 
The  wind  and  I  uplift  her  veil ; 
As  if  the  calm,  cold  moon  she  were. 
And  1  the  tide,  1  follow  her. 


KING   SOLOMON    AND   THE   ANTS.  —  RED   RIDING-HOOD.       413 


As  unrebuked  as  they,  I  share 
The  license  of  the  sun  and  air, 
And  in  a  common  homage  hide 
My  worship  from  her  scorn  and  pride. 

World-wide  apart,  and  yet  so  near, 
I  breathe  her  charmed  atmosphere, 
Wherein  to  her  my  service  brings 
The  reverence  due  to  holy  things. 

Wer  maiden  pride,  her  haughty  name, 
My  dumb  devotion  shall  not  shame  ; 
The  love  that  no  return  doth  crave 
To  knightly  levels  lifts  the  slave. 

No  lance  have  I,  in  joust  or  fight, 
To  splinter  in  my  lady's  sight  ; 
But,  at  her  feet,  how  blest  were  I 
For  any  need  of  hers  to  die  ! 


KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  ANTS. 

OUT  from  Jerusalem 

The  king  rode  with  his  great 
War  chiefs  and  lords  of  state, 

Arid  Sheba's  queen  with  them, 

Comely,  but  black  withal, 
To  whom,  perchance,  belongs 
That  wondrous  Song  of  songs, 

Sensuous  and  mystical, 

Whereto  devout  souls  turn 
In  fond,  ecstatic  dream, 
And  through  its  earth-born  thenie 

The  Love  of  loves  discern. 

Proud  in  the  Syrian  sun, 
In  gold  and  purple  sheen, 
The  dusky  Ethiop  queen 

Smiled  on  King  Solomon. 

Wisest  of  men,  he  knew 
The  languages  of  all 
The  creatures  great  or  small 

That  trod  the  earth  or  flew. 

Across  an  ant-hill  led 

The  king's  path,  and  he  heard 
Its  small  folk,  and  their  word 

He  thus  interpreted  : 

"  Here  comes  the  king  men  greet 
A.s  wise  and  good  and  just, 


To  crush  us  in  the  dust 
Under  his  heedless  feet." 

The  great  king  bowed  his  head, 
And  saw  the  wide  surprise 
Of  the  Queen  of  Sheba's  eyes 

As  he  told  her  what  they  said. 

"0  king  ! "  she  whispered  sweet, 
"  Too  happy  fate  have  they 
Who  perish  in  thy  way 

Beneath  thy  gracious  feet  ! 

"  Thou  of  the  God-lent  crown, 
Shall  these  vile  creatures  dare 
Murmur  against  thee  where 

The  knees  of  kings  kneel  down  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  Solomon  replied,  . 

"  The  wise  and  strong  should  seek 
The  welfare  of  the  weak," 

And  turned  his  horse  aside. 

His  train,  with  quick  alarm, 
Curved  with  their  leader  round 
The  ant-hill's  peopled  mound, 

And  left  it  free  from  harm. 

The  jewelled  head  bent  low  ; 

"  0  king  !  "  she  said,  "henceforth 

The  secret  of  thy  worth 
And  wisdom  well  I  know. 

"  Happy  must  be  the  State 
Whose  ruler  heedeth  more 
The  murmurs  of  the  poor 

Than  flatteries  of  the  great." 


EED   RIDING-HOOD. 

ON  the  wide  lawn  the  snow  lay  deep, 
Ridged  o'er  with  many  a  drifted  heap  ; 
The  wind  that  through  the  pine-trees 


The 


sung 
naked 


elm-boughs     tossed     and 
swung  ; 

While,    through    the    window,    frosty- 
starred, 

Against  the  sunset  purple  barred, 
We  saw  the  sombre  crow  flap  by, 
The  hawk's  gray  fleck  along  the  sky, 
The  crested  blue-jay  flitting  swift,  ' 
The  squirrel  poising  on  the  drift, 
Erect,  alert,  his  broad  gray  tail 
Set  to  the  north  wind  like  a  sail. 


414 


THE   PRESSED   GENTIAN.  —  OVERRULED. 


It  rwne  to  pass,  our  little  lass, 
With  flattened  face  against  the  glass, 
And  eyes  in  which  the  tender  dew 
Of  pity  shone,  stood  gazing  through 
The  narrow  space  her  rosy  lips 
Had  melted  from  the  frost's  eclipse  : 
"Oh,  see,"  she  cried,  "the  poor  blue- 
jays  ! 

What  is  it  that  the  black  crow  says  ? 
The  squirrel  lifts  his  little  legs 
Because  he  has  no  hands,  and  begs  ; 
He  's  asking  for  my  nuts,  I  know  : 
May  I  not  feed  them  on  the  snow  ? " 

Half  lost  within  her  boots,  her  head 
Warm-sheltered  in  her  hood  of  red, 
Her  plaid  skirt  close  about  her  drawn, 
She  floundered  down  the  wintry  lawn  ; 
Now  struggling  through  the  misty  veil 
Blown  round  her  by  the  shrieking  gale  ; 
Now  sinking  in  a  drift  so  low 
Her  scarlet  hood  could  scarcely  show 
Its  dash  of  color  on  the  snow. 

She  dropped  for  bird  and  beast  forlorn 
Her  little  store  of  nuts  and  corn, 
And  thus  her  timid  guests  bespoke  : 
"Come,    squirrel,     from    your    hollow 

oak,  — 
Come,    black   old  crow,  —  come,    poor 

blue-jay, 

Before  your  supper 's  blown  away  ! 
Don't  be  afraid,  we  all  are  good  ; 
And  I  'm  mamma's  Red  Riding-Hood  !  " 

0  Thou  whose  care  is  over  all, 
Who  heedest  even  the  sparrow's  fall, 
Keep  in  the  little  maiden's  breast 
The  pity  which  is  now  its  guest ! 
Let  not  her  cultured  years  make  less 
The  childhood  charm  of  tenderness, 
But  let  her  feel  as  well  as  know, 
Nor  harder  with  her  polish  grow  ! 
Unmoved  by  sentimental  grief 
That  wails  along  some  printed  leaf, 
But,  prompt  with  kindly  word  and  deed 
To  own  the  claims  of  all  who  need,  - 
Let  the  grown  woman's  self  make  good 
The  promise  of  Red  Riding-Hood  ! 


THE  PRESSED   GENTIAN. 

THE  time  of  gifts  has  come  again, 
And,  on  my  northern  window-pane, 
Outlined  against  the  day's  brief  light, 


A.  Crmstmas  token  hangs  in  sight. 
The  wayside  travellers,  as  they  pass, 
Mark  the  gray  disk  of  clouded  glass  ; 
And  the  dull  blankness  seems,  perchance, 
?olly  to  their  wise  ignorance. 

They  cannot  from  their  outlook  see 

The  perfect  grace  it  hath  for  me  ; 

For    there    the    flower,    whose    fringes 

through 

The  frosty  breath  of  autumn  blew, 
Turns  from  without  its  face  of  bloom 
To  the  warm  tropic  of  my  room, 
As  fair  as  when  beside  its  brook 
The  hue  of  bending  skies  it  took. 

so  from  the  trodden  ways  of  earth, 
Seem  some  sweet  souls  who  veil  their 

worth, 

And  offer  to  the  careless  glance 
The  clouding  gray  of  circumstance. 
They  blossom    best  where    hearth-fires 

burn, 

To  loving  eyes  alone  they  turn 
The  flowers  of  inward  grace,  that  hide 
Their  beauty  from  the  world  outside. 

But  deeper  meanings  come  to  me, 
My  harf-immortal  flower,  from  thee  ! 
Man  judges  from  a  partial  view, 
None  ever  yet  his  brother  knew  ; 
The  Eternal  Eye  that  sees  the  whole 
May  better  read  the  darkened  soul, 
And  find,  to  outward  sense  denied, 
The  flower  upon  its  inmost  side  ! 


OVERRULED- 

THE  threads  our  hands  in  blindness  spin 
No  self-determined  plan  weaves  in  ; 
The  shuttle  of  the  unseen  powers 
Works  out  a  pattern  not  as  ours. 

Ah  !  small  the  choice  of  him  who  sings 
What    sound    shall  leave  the    smitten 

strings  ; 

Fate  holds  and  guides  the  hand  of  art ; 
The  singer's  is  the  servant's  part. 

The  wind-harp  chooses  not  the  tone 
That  through  its   trembling  threads  is 

blown  ; 

The  patient  organ  cannot  guess 
What  hand  its  passive  keys  shall  press. 


rl  WAS  A  STRANGER,  AND  YE  TOOK  ME  IN."      415 


Through  wish,  resolve,  and  act,  our  will 
Is  moved  by  undreamed  forces  still ; 
And  no  man  measures  in  advance 
His  strength  with  untried  circumstance. 

As  streams  take  hue  from  shade  and  sun, 
As  runs  the  life  the  song  must  run  ; 
But,  glad  or  sad,  to  his  good  end 
God  grant  the  varying  notes  may  tend  ! 


HYMN. 

fcUNG-     AT    THE     ANNIVERSARY    OF    THE 

CHILDREN'S  MISSION,  BOSTON  (1878). 

THINE  are  all  the  gifts,  0  God  ! 

Thine  the  broken  bread  ; 
Let  the  naked  feet  be  shod, 

And  the  starving  fed. 

Let  Thy  children,  by  Thy  grace, 

Give  as  they  abound, 
Till  the  poor  have  breathing-space, 

And  the  lost  are  found. 

Wiser  than  the  miser's  hoards 

Is  the  giver's  choice  ; 
Sweeter  than  the  song  of  birds 

Is  the  thankful  voice. 

Welcome  smiles  on  faces  sad 

As  the  flowers  of  spring  ; 
Let  the  tender  hearts  be  glad 

With  the  joy  they  bring. 

Happier  for  their  pity's  sake 
Make  their  sports  and  plays, 

And  from  lips  of  childhood  take 
Thy  perfected  praise  ! 


GIVING  AND  TAKING.* 

WHO  gives  and  hides  the  giving  hand, 
Nor  counts  on  favor,  fame,  or  praise, 
Shall  find  his  smallest  gift  outweighs 

The  burden  of  the  sea  and  laud. 

Who  gives  to  whom  hath  naught  been 

given, 
His  gift  in  need,  though  small  indeed 

»  I  have  attempted  to  put  in  English  verse  .1 
prose  translation  of  a  poem  by  Tinnevaltiva,  a 
Hindoo  poet  of  the  third  cen,tury  of  our  era. 


As  is  the  grass-blade's  wind-blown  seed, 
Is  large  as  earth  and  rich  as  heaven. 

Forget  it  not,  0  man,  to  whom 

A  gift  shall  fall,  while  yet  on  earth  ; 
Yea,  even  to  thy  seven-fold  birth 

Recall  it  in  the  lives  to  come. 

Who  broods  above  a  wrong  in  thought 
Sins  much  ;  but  greater  sin  is  his 
Who,  fed  and  clothed  with  kindnesses, 

Shall  count  the  holy  alms  as  nought. 

Who  dares  to  curse  the  hands  that  bless 
Shall  know  of  sin  the  deadliest  cost ; 
The  patience  of  the  heavens  is  lost 

Beholding  man's  unthankfulness. 

For  he  who  breaks  all  laws  may  still 
In  Sivam's  mercy  be  forgiven  ; 
But  none  can  save,  in  earth  or  heaven, 

The  wretch  who  answers  good  with  ill. 


"I  WAS  A    STRANGER,  AND  YE 
TOOK  ME  IN." 

'NEATH  skies  that  winter  never  knew 
The  air  was  full  of  light  and  balm, 

And  warm  and  soft  the  Gulf  wind  blew 
Through  orange  bloom  and  groves  of 
palm. 

A  stranger  from  the  frozen  North, 
Who  sought  the  fount  of  health  in 

vain, 
Sank  homeless  on  the  alien  earth, 

And  breathed  the    languid  air   wilh 
pain. 

God's  angel  came  !     The  tender  shade 
Of  pity  made  her  blue  eye  dim  ; 

Against  her  woman's  breast  she  laid 
The  drooping,  fainting  head  of  him. 

She  bore  him  to  a  pleasant  room, 

Flower-sweet  and  cool  with  salt  sea  an, 

And  watched  beside  his  bed,  for  whom 
His  far-off  sisters  might  not  care. 

She  fanned  his  feverish  brow  and 
smoothed 

Its  lines  of  pain  with  tenderest  touch. 
With  holy  hymn  and  prayer  she  soothed 

The  trembling  soul  that  feared  so  much. 


416 


AT   SCHOOL-CLOSE. 


Through  her  the  peace  that  passeth  sight 
Came  to  him,  as  he  lapsed  away 

As  one  whose  troubled  dreams  of  night 
Slide  slowly  into  tranquil  day. 

The  sweetness  of  the  Land  of  Flowers 
Upon  his  lonely  grave  she  laid  : 

The  jasmine  dropped  its  golden  showers, 
The  orange  lent  its  bloom  and  shade. 

And  something  whispered  in  her  thought, 
More  sweet  than  mortal  voices  be  : 

"  The  service  thou  for  him  hast  wrought 
O  daughter  !  hath  been  done  for  me." 


AT  SCHOOL-CLOSE. 

BOWDOIN   STREET   (1877). 

THE  end  has  come,  as  come  it  must 
To  all  things  ;  in  these  sweet  June  days 

The  teacher  and  the  scholar  trust 
Their  parting  feet  to  separate  ways. 

They  part  :  but  in  the  years  to  be 
Shall  pleasant  memories  cling  to  each, 

As  shells  bear  inland  from  the  sea 
The  murmur  of  the  rhythmic  beach. 

One  knew  the  joy  the  sculptor  knows 
When,  plastic  to  his  lightest  touch, 

His  clay-wrought  model  slowly  grows 
To  tliat  fine  grace  desired  so  much. 

So  daily  grew  before  her  eyes 

The     living     shapes     whereon     she 

wrought, 

Strong,  tender,  innocently  wise, 
The  child's  heart  with  the  woman's 
thought. 

And  one  shall  never  quite  forget 
The  voice  that  called  from  dream  and 


The  firm  but  kindly  hand  that  set 
Her  feet  in  learning's  pleasant  way,  — 

The  joy  of  Undine  soul-possessed, 

The  wakening  sense,  the  strange  de 
light 

That  swelled  the  fabled  statue's  breast 
And  filled  its  clouded  eyes  with  sight  ! 

0  Youth  and  Beauty,  loved  of  all  ! 
Ye  pass  from  girlhood's  gate  of  dreams  ; 


In  broader  ways  your  footsteps  fall, 
Ye  test  the  truth  of  all  that  seems. 

Her  little  realm  the  teacher  leaves, 
She  breaks  her  wand  of  power  apart, 

While,  for  your  love  and  trust,  she  givfe. 
The  warm  thanks  of  a  grateful  heart. 

Hers  is  the  sober  summer  noon 

Contrasted  with  your  morn  of  spring  , 

The  waning  with  the  waxing  moon, 
The  folded  with  the  outspread  wing. 

Across  the  distance  of  the  years 

She  sends  her  God-speed  back  to  you  ; 

She  has  no  thought  of  doubts  or  fears  : 
Be  but  yourselves,  be  pure,  be  true, 

And  prompt  in  duty  ;  heed  the  deep, 
Low  voice  of  conscience ;  through  the 
ill 

And  discord  round  about  you,  keep 
Your  faith  in  human  nature  still. 

Be  gentle  :  unto  griefs  and  needs, 
Be  pitiful  as  woman  should, 

And,  spite  of  all  the  lies  of  creeds, 
Hold  fast  the  truth  that  God  is  good. 

Give  and  receive  ;  go  forth  and  bless 
The  world  that  needs  the  hand  and 
heart 

Of  Martha's  helpful  carefulness 
No  less  than  Mary's  better  part. 

So  shall  the  stream  of  time  flow  by 
And  leave  each  year  a  richer  good, 

And  matron  loveliness  outvie 

The  nameless  charm  of  maidenhood. 

And,  when  the  world  shall  link   your 

names 

With  gracious  lives  and  manners  fine, 
The  teacher  shall  assert  her  claims, 
And   proudly  whisper,   "These  were 
mine  ! " 


AT  EVENTIDE. 

POOR  and  inadequate  the  shadow-play 
Of  gain  and  loss,   of  waking  and  of 

dream, 
Against  life's  solemn  background  needs 

must  seem 

At  this  late  hour.     Yet,  not  un  thank- 
fully, 


THE   PROBLEM.  —  RESPONSE. 


417 


I  call  to  mind  the  fountains  by  the  way, 

The  breath  of  flowers,  the  bird-song  on 
the  spray, 

Dear  friends,  sweet  human  loves,  the  joy 
of  giving 

And  of  receiving,  the  great  boon  of  living 
In  grand  historic  years  when  Liberty 

Had  need  of  word  and  work,  quick  sym 
pathies 

For  all  who  fail  and  suffer,  song's  relief, 

Nature's  uncloying  loveliness  ;  and  chief, 
The  kind  restraining  hand  of  Provi 
dence, 
The  inward  witness,  the  assuring  sense 

Of  an  Eternal  Good  which  overlies 

The  sorrow  of  the  world,  Love  which  out 
lives 

All  sin   and  wrong,  Compassion  which 
forgives 

To  the  uttermost,  and  Justice  whose  clear 
eyes 

Through  lapse  and  failure  look  to  the 
intent, 

And  judge  our  frailty  by  the  life  we 
meant. 


THE  PROBLEM. 


NOT  without  envy  "Wealth  at  times  must 

look 
On  their  brown  strength  who  wield  the 

reaping-hook 
And  scythe,  or  at  the  forge-fire  shape 

the  plow 
Or  the  steel  harness  of  the  steeds   of 

steam  ;  — 

All  who,  by  skill  and  patience,  anyhow 
Make  service  noble,  and  the  earth  redeem 
From  savageness.     By  kingly  accolade 
Than  theirs  was  never  worthier  knight 
hood  made. 
Well  for  them,   if,   while    demagogues 

their  vain 

And  evil  counsels  proffer,  they  maintain 
Their  honest  manhood  unseduced,  and 

wage 

No  war  with  Labor's  right  to  Labor's  gain 
Of  sweet  home-comfort,  rest  of  hand  and 

brain, 
And  softer  pillow  for  the  head  of  Age. 


ir. 


And  well  for  Gain  if  it  ungrudging  yields 
Labor  its  just  demand  ;  and  well  for 

Ease 

If  in  the  uses  of  its  own,  it  sees 
No  wrong  to  him  who  tills  its  pleasant 

fields 

And  spreads  the  table  of  its  luxuries. 
The  interests  of  the  rich  man  and  the 

poor 

Are  one  and  same,  inseparable  erermore  ; 
And,  when  scant  wage  or  labor  fail  to 

give 
Food,  shelter,  raiment,  wherewithal  to 

live, 

Need  has  its  rights,  necessity  its  claim. 
Yea,  even  self- wrought  misery  and  shame 
Test  well  the  charity  suffering  long  and 

kind. 
The  home-pressed  question  of  the  age  can 

find 

No  answer  in  the  catch- words  of  the  blind 
Leaders  of  blind.  Solution  there  is  none 
Save  in  the  Golden  Rule  of  Christ  alone. 


RESPONSE. 

1877. 

BESIDE  that  milestone  where  the  level 

sun, 
Nigh  unto  setting,  sheds  his  last,  low 

rays 

On  word  and  work  irrevocably  done, 
Life's  blending  threads  of  good  and  ill 

outspun, 
I  hear,  0  friends  !  your  words  of  cheer 

and  praise, 

Half  doubtful  if  myself  or  otherwise. 
Like  him  who,  in  the  old  Arabian  joke, 
A  beggar  slept  and  crowned  Caliph 

woke. 
Thanks  not  the  less.     "With  not  unglad 

surprise 
I  see  my  life-work  through  your  partial 

eyes  ; 
Assured,  in  giving  to  my  home-taught 


A  higher  value  than  of  right  belongs, 
You  do  but  read  between  the  written 

lines 
The  finer  grace  of  unfulfilled  designs. 


THE  KING'S   MISSIVE, 

AND  OTHER   POEMS. 


THE  PRELUDE. 

I  SPREAD  a  scanty  board  too  late  ; 
The  old-time  guests  for  whom  I  wait 

Come  few  and  slow,  methinks,  to-day. 
Ah  !  who  could  hear  my  messages 
Across  the  dim  unsounded  seas 

On  which  so  many  have  sailed  away  ! 

Come,  then,  old  friends,  who  linger  yet, 
And  let  us  meet,  as  we  have  met, 

Once  more  beneath  this  low  sunshine  ; 
And  grateful  for  the  good  we  've  known, 
The  riddles  solved,  the  ills  outgrown, 

Shake  hands  upon  the  border  line. 

The  favor,  asked  too  oft  before, 
From  your  indulgent  ears,  once  more 

I  crave,  and,  if  belated  lays 
To  slower,  feebler  measures  move, 
The  silent  sympathy  of  love 

To  me  is  dearer  now  than  praise. 

And  ye,  O  younger  friends,  for  whom 
My  hearth  and  heart  keep  open  room, 

Come   smiling   through   the   shadows 

long, 

Be  with  me  while  the  sun  goes  down, 
And  with  your  cheerful  voices  drown 

The  minor  of  my  even-song. 

For,  equal  through  the  day  and  night, 
The  wise  Eternal  oversight 

And   love   and   power  and   righteous 

will 

Remain  :  the  law  of  destiny 
The  best  for  each  and  all  must  be, 

And  life  its  promise  shall  fulfil. 


THE  KING'S   MISSIVES 

1661. 

UNDER  the  great  hill  sloping  bare 
To  cove  and  meadow  and   Common 
lot, 


In  his  council  chamber  and  oaken  chair, 
Sat   the   worshipful   Governor  Endi- 

cott. 

A  grave,  strong  man,  who  knew  no  peer 
In  the  pilgrim  land,  where  he  ruled  in 

fear 

Of  God,  not  man,  and  for  good  or  ill 
Held  his  trust  with  an  iron  will. 

He  had  shorn  with  his  sword  the  cross 

from  out 
The  flag,  and   cloven   the    May-pole 

down, 

Harried  the  heathen  round  about, 
And  whipped  the  Quakers  from  town 

to  town. 

Earnest  and  honest,  a  man  at  need 
To  burn  like  a  torch  for  his  own  harsh 

creed, 
He  kept  with  the  flaming  brand  of  his 

zeal 
The  gate  of  the  holy  common  weal. 

His    brow   was    clouded,    his    eye    was 

stern, 
With  a  look  of  mingled  sorrow  and 

wrath  ; 
"  Woe 's  me  ! "  he  murmured  :  "  at  every 

turn 

The  pestilent  Quakers  are  in  my  path  ! 
Some  we  have*  scourged,  and  banished 

some, 
Some  hanged,  more   doomed,  and  still 

they  come, 

Fast  as  the  tide  of  yon  bay  sets  in, 
Sowing  their  heresy's  seed  of  sin. 

"  Did  we  count  on  this  ?     Did  we  leave 

behind 
The  graves  of   our  kin,  the  comfort 

and  ease 
Of  our  English  hearths  and   homes,  to 

find 

Troublers  of  Israel  such  as  these  ? 
Shall  I  spare  ?    Shall  I  pity  them  ?    Got) 

forbid! 
I  will  do  as  the  prophet  to  Agag  did : 


THE  KING'S  MISSIVE. 


419 


They  come  to  poison  the  wells  of  the 

Word, 
I    will   hew  them   in  pieces   before   the 

Lord  !  " 

The  door  swung  open,  and  Rawson  the 

clerk 

Entered,  and  whispered  under  breath, 
"  There  waits  below  for  the  hangman's 

work 

A  fellow  banished  on  pain  of  death  — 
Shattuck,   of    Salem,    unhealed   of  the 

whip, 
Brought    over   in  Master    Goldsmith's 

ship 

At  anchor  here  in  a  Christian  port, 
With  freight  of    the  devil  and  all    his 

sort ! " 

Twice  and  thrice  on  the  chamber  floor 
Striding  fiercely  from  wall  to  wall, 

"  The  Lord  do  so  to  me  and  more," 
The  Governor  cried,    *'  if  I  hang  not 
all! 

Bring  hither  the   Quaker."     Calm,  se 
date, 

With  the  look  of  a  man  at  ease  with 
fate, 

Into  that  presence  grim  and  dread 

Came   Samuel    Shattuck,  with    hat  on 
head. 

"  Off  with  the  knave's  hat !  "    An  angry 

hand 

Smote  down    the   offence  ;    but    the 
wearer  said, 

With  a  quiet  smile,  "  By  the  king's  com 
mand 

I  bear  his  message  and  stand  in  his 
stead." 

In  the  Governor's  hand  a  missive  he  laid 

With  the   royal  arms    on  its   seal   dis 
played, 

And  the  proud  man  spake  as  he  gazed 
thereat, 

Uncovering,    "Give    Mr.    Shattuck  his 
hat." 

He  turned  to  the  Quaker,  bowing  low,  — 
"  The  king  commandeth  your  friends' 

release, 

Doubt  not  he  shall  be  obeyed,  although 
To  his  subjects'  sorrow  and  sin's   in 
crease. 
What   he   here   enjoineth,   John    Endi- 

cott, 
His  loyal  servant,  questioneth  not. 


You 


are  free !     God  grant  the  spirit  you 

own 

May  take    you    from    us   to    parts    un 
known." 


So  the  door  of  the  jail  was  open  cast, 
And,  like   Daniel,  out   of    the    lion's 

den 

Tender  youth  and  girlhood  passed, 
With    age-bowed    women   and    gray- 
locked  men. 

And  the  voice  of  one  appointed  to  die 
Was  lifted  in  praise  and  thanks  on  highf 
And  the  little  maid  from  New  Nether 
lands 

Kissed,  in   her  joy,  the  doomed  man's 
hands. 

And  one,  whose  call  was  to  minister 
To  the  souls   in    prison,  beside    him 
went, 

An  ancient  woman,  bearing  with  her 
The  linen  shroud  for  his  burial  meant. 

For    she,   not    counting   her    own   life 
dear, 

In  the  strength  of  a  love  that  cast  out 
fear, 

Had    watched    and    served  where   her 
brethren  died, 

Like  those  who  waited    the  cross    be 
side. 

One  moment  they  paused  on  their  way 

to  look 
On  the  martyr  graves  by  the  Common 

side, 
And  much  scourged  Wharton  of  Salem 

took 

His  burden  of  prophecy  up  and  cried : 
"  Rest,   souls  of    the  valiant !      Not  in 

vain 
Have   ye   borne    the  Master's  cross  of 

pain  ; 
Ye  have  fought  the  fight,  ye  are  victors 

crowned, 
With  a  fourfold  chain  ye  have  Satan 

bound ! " 

The  autumn  haze  lay  soft  and  still 
On  wood    and  meadow  and  upland 

farms ; 
On   the  broAV  of  Snow  Hill   the  greafc 

windmill 

Slowly  and  lazily  swung  its  arms  ; 
Broad  in  the  sunshine  stretched  away, 
With  its  capes  and  islands,  the  turquoise 
bay; 


420 


ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER. 


And  over  water  and  dusk  of  pines 
Blue  hills  lifted  their  faiut  outlines. 

The  topaz  leaves  of  the  walnut  glowed, 

The  sumach  added  its  crimson  fleck, 
And  double  in  air  and  water  showed 
The  tinted  maples  along  the  Neck  ; 
Through   frost   flower   clusters   of  pale 

star-mist, 

And  gentian  fringes  of  amethyst, 
And  royal  plumes  of  golden-rod, 
The  grazing  cattle  on  Gentry  trod. 

But  as  they  who  see  not,  the  Quakers 

saw 
The   world   about    them;    they   only 

thought 

With  deep  thanksgiving  and  pious  awe 
On   the   great    deliverance   God   had 

wrought. 

Through  lane  and  alley  the  gazing  town. 
Noisily  followed  them  up  and  down ; 
Some  with  scoffing  and  brutal  jeer, 
Some  with  pity  and  words  of  cheer. 

One  brave  voice  rose  above  the  din. 

Upsall,  gray  with  his  length  of  days, 
Cried  from  the   door  of  his  Red   Lion 
Inn  : 

"  Men  of  Boston,  give  God  the  praise  ! 
No  more  shall  innocent  blood  call  down 
The  bolts  of  wrath  on  your  guilty  town. 
The  freedom  of  worship,  dear  to  you, 
Is  dear  to  all,  and  to  all  is  due. 

"  I  see  the  vision  of  days  to  come, 

When  your  beautiful  City  of  the  Bay 

Shall  be  Christian  liberty's  chosen  home, 

And  none  shall  his  neighbor's  rights 

gainsay. 

The  varying  notes  of  worship  shall  blend 
And  as  one  great  prayer  to  God  ascend, 
And  hands  of  mutual  charity  raise 
Walls  of  salvation  and  gates  of  praise." 

So  passed  the  Quakers  through  Boston 

town, 

Whose  painful  ministers  sighed  to  see 
The   walls   of    their    sheep-fold   falling 

down, 

And  wolves  of  heresy  prowling  free. 
But  the  years  went  on,  and  brought  no 

wrong  ; 
With   milder    counsels   the  State   grew 

strong, 

As  outward  Letter  and  inward  Light 
Kept  the  balance  of  truth  aright. 


The  Puritan  spirit  perishing  not, 

To  Concord's  yeomen  the  signal  sent, 

And  spake  in  the  voice  of  the  cannon- 
shot 

That  severed   the   chains  of   a  conti 
nent. 

With  its  gentler  mission  of  peace   and 
good-will 

The   thought  of    the   Quaker   is   living, 
still, 

And  the  freedom  of  soul  he  prophesied 

Is  gospel   and  law  where  the   martyrs 
died. 


ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMERS 

THOUGH  flowers  have  perished   at  the 
touch 

Of  Frost,  the  early  comer, 
I  hail  the  season  loved  so  much, 

The  good  St.  Martin's  summer. 

0  gracious  morn,  with  rose-red  dawn, 
And  thin  moon  curving  o'er  it ! 

The  old  year's  darling,  latest  born, 
More  loved  than  all  before  it ! 

How  flamed    the  sunrise    through  the 
pines ! 

How  stretched  the  birchen  shadows, 
Braiding  in  long,  wind-wavered  lines 

The  westward  sloping  meadows ! 

The  sweet  day,  opening  as  a  flower 

Unfolds  its  petals  tender, 
Renews  for  us  at  noontide's  hour 

The  summer's  tempered  splendor. 

The  birds  are  hushed ;  alone  the  wind, 
That  through  the  woodland  searches, 

The  red-oak's  lingering  leaves  can  find, 
And  yellow  plumes  of  larches. 

But  still  the  balsam-breathing  pine 
Invites  no  thought  of  sorrow, 

No  hint  of  loss  from  air  like  wine 
The  earth's  content  can  borrow. 

The  summer  and  the  winter  here 
Midway  a  truce  are  holding, 

A  soft,  consenting  atmosphere 
Their  tents  of  peace  enfolding. 

The  silent  woods,  the  lonely  hills, 
Rise  solemn  in  their  gladness  ; 


THE   DEAD   FEAST   OF   THE  KOL-FOLK. 


421 


The  quiet  that  the  valley  fills 
Is  scarcely  joy  or  sadness. 

flow  strange  !     The  autumn  yesterday 
In  winter's  grasp  seemed  dying; 

On  whirling  winds  from  skies*  of  gray 
The  early  snow  was  flying. 

And  now,  while  over  Nature's  mood 
There  steals  a  soft  relenting, 

[  will  not  mar  the  present  good, 
Forecasting  or  lamenting. 

My  autumn  time  and  Nature's  hold 

A  dreamy  tryst  together, 
And,  both  grown  old,  about  us  fold 

The  golden-tissued  weather. 

I  lean  my  heart  against  the  day 

To  feel  its  bland  caressing  ; 
I  will  not  let  it  pass  away 

Before  it  leaves  its  blessing. 

God's  angels  come  not  as  of  old 
The  Syrian  shepherds  knew  them  ; 

In  reddening  dawns,  in  sunset  gold, 
And  warm  noon  lights  I  view  them. 

Nor  need  there  is,  in  times  like  this 
When  heaven  to  earth  draws  nearer, 

Of  wing  or  song  as  witnesses 
To  make  their  presence  clearer. 

O  stream  of  life,  whose  swifter  flow 

Is  of  the  end  forewarning, 
Methinks  thy  sundown  afterglow 

Seems  less  of  night  than  morning  ! 

Old  cares  grow  light ;  aside  I  lay 
The  doubts  and  fears  that  troubled  ; 

The  quiet  of  the  happy  day 
Within  my  soul  is  doubled. 

That  clouds  must  veil  this  fair  sunshine 

Not  less  a  joy  I  find  it  ; 
Nor  less  yon  warm  horizon  line 

That  winter  lurks  behind  it. 

The  mystery  of  the  untried  days 
I  close  my  eyes  from  reading ; 

flis  will  be  done  whose  darkest  ways 
To  light  and  life  are  leading ! 

Less  drear  the  winter  night  shall  be, 
If  memory  cheer  and  hearten 

\ts  heavy  hours  with  thoughts  of  thee, 
Sweet  summer  of  St.  Martin ! 


THE  DEAD  FEAST  OF  THE  KOL- 
FOLK.83 

CHOTA   NAGPOOR. 

WE  have  opened  the  door, 

Once,  twice,  thrice  ! 
We  have  swept  the  floor, 

We  have  boiled  the  rice. 
Come  hither,  come  hither  ! 
Come  from  the  far  lands, 
Come  from  the  star  lands, 

Come  as  before ! 
We  lived  long  together, 
We  loved  one  another  ; 

Come  back  to  our  life. 
Come  father,  come  mother, 
Come  sister  and  brother, 

Child,  husband,  and  wife, 
For  you  we  are  sighing. 
Come  take  your  old  places, 
Come  look  in  our  faces, 
The  dead  on  the  dying, 
Come  home ! 

We  have  opened  the  door, 

Once,  twice,  thrice ! 
We  have  kindled  the  coals, 

And  we  boil  the  rice 
For  the  feast  of  souls. 

Come  hither,  come  hither  ! 
Think  not  we  fear  you, 
Whose  hearts  are  so  near  you. 
Come  tenderly  thought  on, 
Come  all  unforgotten, 
Come  from  the  shadow-lands, 
From  the  dim  meadow-lands 
Where  the  pale  grasses  bend 

Low  to  our  sighing. 
Come  father,  come  mother, 
Come  sister  and  brother, 
Come  husband  and  friend, 

The  dead  to  the  dying, 
Come  home  ! 

We  have  opened  the  door 

You  entered  so  oft ; 
For  the  feast  of  souls 
We  have  kindled  the  coals, 

And  we  boil  the  rice  soft. 
Come  you  who  are  dearest 
To  us  who  are  nearest!, 
Come  hither,  come  hither, 
From  out  the  wild  weather ; 
The  storm  clouds  are  flying, 
The  peepul  is  sighing; 

Come  in  from  the  rain. 


422 


THE   LOST   OCCASION. 


Come  father,  come  mother, 
Come  sister  and  brother, 
Come  husband  and  lover, 
Beneath  our  roof-cover. 

Look  on  us  again, 

The  dead  on  the  dying, 

Come  home  ! 

We  have  opened  the  door ! 
For  the  feast  of  souls 
We  have  kindled  the  coals 

We  may  kindle  no  more  ! 
Snake,  fever,  and  famine, 
The  curse  of  the  Brahmin, 

The  sun  and  the  dew, 
They  burn  us,  they  bite  us, 
They  waste  us  and  smite  us ; 

Our  days  are  but  few  ! 
In  strange  lands  far  yonder 
To  wonder  and  wander 

We  hasten  to  you. 
List  then  to  our  sighing, 

While  yet  we  are  here : 
Nor  seeing  nor  hearing, 
We  wait  without  fearing, 

To  feel  you  draw  near. 
O  dead  to  the  dying 
Come  home  ! 


THE  LOST   OCCASION. 

SOME  die  too  late  and  some  too  soon, 
At  early  morning,  heat  of  noon, 
Or  the  chill  evening  twilight.     Thou, 
Whom  the  rich  heavens  did  so  endow 
With  eyes  of   power  and    Jove's  own 

brow, 

With  all  the  massive  strength  that  fills 
Thy  home-horizon's  granite  hills, 
With  rarest  gifts  of  heart  and  head 
From  manliest  stock  inherited, 
New  England's  stateliest  type  of  man, 
In  port  and  speech  Olympian  ; 
Whom  no  one  met,  at  first,  but  took 
A  second  awed  and  wondering  look 
(As  turned,  perchance,  the  eves  of  Greece 
On  Phidias  unveiled  masterpiece)  ; 
Whose  words  in  simplest  home-spun  clad, 
The  Saxon  strength  of  Csedmon's  had, 
With  power  reserved  at  need  to  reach 
The  Roman  forum's  loftiest  speech, 
Sweet  with  persuasion,  eloquent 
In  passion,  cool  in  argument, 
Or,  ponderous,  falling  on  thy  foes 
As  fell  the  Norse  god's  hammer  blows, 
Crushing  as  if  with  Talus'  flail 


Through  Error's  logic-woven  mail, 
And  failing  only  when  they  tried 
The  adamant  of  the  righteous  side,  — 
Thou,  foiled  in  aim  and  hope,  bereaved 
Of  old  friends,  by  the  new  deceived, 
Too  soon  for  us,  too  soon  for  thee, 
Beside  thy  lonely  Northern  sea, 
Where   long   and   low  the   marsh-lands 

spread, 
Laid  wearily  down  thy  august  head. 

Thou  shouldst  have  lived  to  feel  below 
Thy  feet  Disunion's  fierce  upthrow,  — 
The  late-sprung  mine  that  underlaid 
Thy  sad  concessions  vainly  made. 
Thou  shouldst  have  seen  from  Sumter's 

wall 

The  star-flag  of  the  Union  fall, 
And  armed  rebellion  pressing  on 
The  broken  lines  of  Washington  ! 
No  stronger  voice  than  thine  had  then 
Called  out  the  utmost  might  of  men, 
To  make  the  Union's  charter  free 
And  strengthen  law  by  liberty. 
How  had  that  stern  arbitrament 
To  thy  gray  age  youth's  vigor  lent, 
Shaming  ambition's  paltry  prize 
Before  thy  disillusioned  eyes  ; 
Breaking  the  spell  about  thee  wound 
Like    the    green   withes    that    Samson 

bound  ; 

Redeeming  in  one  effort  grand, 
Thyself  and  thy  imperilled  land  ! 
Ah,  cruel  fate,  that  closed  to  thee, 
O  sleeper  by  the  Northern  sea, 
The  gates  of  opportunity ! 
God  fills  the  gaps  of  human  need, 
Each  crisis  brings  its  word  and  deed. 
Wise  men  and  strong  we  did  not  lack; 
But  still,  with  memory  turning  back, 
In  the  dark  hours  we  thought  of  thee, 
And  thy  lone  grave  beside  the  sea. 

Above  that  grave  the  east  winds  blow, 

And  from  the  marsh-lands  drifting  slow 

The  sea-fog  comes,  with  evermore 

The  wave-wash  of  a  lonely  shore, 

And  sea-bird's  melancholy  cry, 

As  Nature  fain  would  typify 

The  sadness  of  a  closing  scene, 

The  loss  of  that  which  should  have  been. 

But,  where  thy  native  mountains  bare 

Their  foreheads  to  diviner  air, 

Fit  emblem  of  enduring  fame, 

One  lofty  summit  keeps  thy  name. 

For  thee  the  cosmic  forces  did 

The  rearing  of  that  pyramid, 


WITHIN   THE  GATE. 


423 


The  prescient  ages  shaping  with 

Fire,  flood,  and  frost  thy  monolith. 

Sunrise  and  sunset  lay  thereon 

With  hands  of  light  their  benison, 

The  stars  of  midnight  pause  to  set 

Their  jewels  in  its  coronet. 

And  evermore  that  mountain  mass 

Seems  climbing  from  the  shadowy  pass 

To  light,  as  if  to  manifest 

Thy  nobler  self,  thy  life  at  best ! 


THE  EMANCIPATION   GROUP. 

BOSTON,    1879. 

AMIDST  thy  sacred  effigies 
Of  old  renown  give  place, 

O  city,  Freedom-loved  !  to  his 
Whose  hand  unchained  a  race. 

Take  the  worn  frame,  that  rested  not 
Save  in  a  martyr's  grave  — 

The  care-lined  face,  that  none  forgot, 
Bent  to  the  kneeling  slave. 

Let  man  be  free  !  The  mighty  word 
He  spake  was  not  his  own ; 

An  impulse  from  the  Highest  stirred 
These  chiselled  lips  alone. 

The  cloudy  sign,  the  fiery  guide, 

Along  his  pathway  ran, 
And  Nature,  through  his  voice,  denied 

The  ownership  of  man. 

We  rest  in  peace  where  these  sad  eyes 
Saw  peril,  strife,  and  pain  ; 

His  was  the  nation's  sacrifice, 
And  ours  the  priceless  gain. 

O  symbol  of  God's  will  on  earth 

As  it  is  done  above  ! 
Bear  witness  to  the  cost  and  Worth 

Of  justice  and  of  love. 

Stand  in  thy  place  and  testify 

To  coming  ages  long, 
That  truth  is  stronger  than  a  lie, 

And  righteousness  than  wrong. 


THE   JUBILEE    SINGERS. 

VOICE  of  a  people  suffering  long, 
The  pathos  of  their  mournful  song, 
The  sorrow  of  their  night  of  wrong  ! 


Their  cry  like  that  which  Israel  gave, 
A  prayer  for  one  to  guide  and  save, 
Like  Moses  by  the  Red  Sea's  wave ! 

The  stern  accord  her  timbrel  lent 
To  Miriam's  note  of  triumph  sent 
O'er  Egypt's  sunken  armament ! 

The  tramp  that  startled  camp  and  town, 
And  shook  the  walls  of  slavery  down, 
The  spectral  march  of  old  John  Brown ! 

The   storm   that   swept  through  battle- 
days, 

The  triumph  after  long  delays, 
The  bondmen  giving  God  the  praise  ! 

Voice  of  a  ransomed  race,  sing  on 
Till  Freedom's  every  right  is  won, 
And  Slavery's  every  wrong  undone  ! 


WITHIN  THE   GATE. 

L.    M.    C. 

WE    sat    together,  last   May-day,  and 
talked 

Of  the  dear  friends  who  walked 
Beside  us,  sharers  of  the  hopes  and  fears 

Of  five  and  forty  years 

Since  first  we  met  in  Freedom's  hope 

forlorn, 

And  heard  her  battle-horn 
Sound  through  the  valleys  of  the  sleep 
ing  North, 
Calling  her  children  forth, 

And  youth  pressed  forward  with  hope- 
lighted  eyes, 

And  age,  with  forecast  wise 
Of  the  long  strife  before  the  triumph  won, 

Girded  his  armor  on. 

Sadly,  as  name  by  name  we  called  the 

roll, 

We  heard  the  dead-bells  toll 
For    the    unanswering    many,   and    we 

knew 
The  living  were  the  few. 

And  we,  who  waited  our  own  call  before 

The  inevitable  door, 
Listened  and  looked,  as  all  have  done, 
to  win 

Some  token  from  within. 


424 


THE   KHAN'S  DEVIL. 


No   sign   we   saw,  we  heard  no   voices 

call ; 

The  impenetrable  wall 
Cast  down  its  shadow,   like  an  awful 

doubt, 
On  all  who  sat  without. 

Of  many  a  hint  of  life  beyond  the  veil, 

And  many  a  ghostly  tale 
Wherewith   the  ages  spanned  the  gulf 
between 

The  seen  and  the  unseen, 

Seeking  from  omen,  trance,  and  dream 

to  gain 

Solace  to  doubtful  pain, 
And  touch,  with  groping  hands,  the  gar 
ment  hem 
Of  truth  sufficing  them, 

We  talked ;  and,  turning  from  the  sore 

unrest 

Of  an  all-baffling  quest, 
We  thought  of  holy  lives  that  from  us 

passed 
Hopeful  unto  the  last, 

As  if  they  saw  beyond  the  river  of  death, 

Like  him  of  Nazareth, 
The  many  mansions  of  the  Eternal  days 

Lift  up  their  gates  of  praise. 

And,   hushed  to  silence  by  a  reverent 

awe, 

Methought,  0  friend,  I  saw 
In  thy  true  life  of  Avord,  and  work,  and 

thought 
The  proof  of  all  we  sought. 

Did  we  not  witness  in  the  life  of  thee 

Immortal  prophecy  "? 
And  feel,  when  with  thee,  that  thy  foot 
steps  trod 

An  everlasting  road  ? 

Not  for  brief  days  thy  generous  sympa 
thies, 

Thy  scorn  of  selfish  ease ; 
Not   for  the  poor  prize   of  an   earthly 

goal 
Thy  strong  uplift  of  soul. 

Than  thine  was  never  turned  a  fonder 
heart 

To  nature  and  to  art 
In  fair-formed  Hellas  in  her  golden  prime, 

Thy  Philothea's  time, 


Yet,  loving  beauty,  thou  couldst  pass  It 
by, 

And  for  the  poor  deny 
Thyself,  and  see  thy  fresh,  sweet  flower 

of  fame 
Wither  in  blight  and  blame. 

Sharing  His  love  who  holds  in  His  em 
brace 

The  lowliest  of  our  race, 
Sure  the  Divine  economy  must  be 

Conservative  of  thee ! 

For  truth  must  live  with  truth,  self-sac 
rifice 

Seek  out  its  great  allies ; 
Good    must    find    good    by   gravitation 

sure, 
And  love  with  love  endure. 

And  so,  since  thou  hast  passed  within 

the  gate 

Whereby  awhile  I  wait, 
I  give  blind  grief  and  blinder  sense  the 

lie: 
Thou  hast  not  lived  to  die ! 


THE   KHAN'S  DEVIL. 

THE  Khan  came  from  Bokhara  town 
To  Hamza,  santon  of  renown. 

"  My  head  is  sick,  my  hands  are  weak; 
Thy  help,  0  holy  man,  I  seek." 

In  silence  marking  for  a  space 

The  Khan's  red  eyes  and  purple  face, 

Thick  voice,  and  loose,  uncertain  tread, 
"  Thou  hast  a  devil !  "  Hamza  said. 

"  Allah  forbid  !  "  exclaimed  the  Khan. 
"  Rid  me  of  him  at  once,  O  man  ! " 

"  Nay,"    Hamza    said,    "  no    spell    of 

mine 
Can  slay  that  cursed  thing  of  thine. 

"Leave  feast  and  wine,  go  forth  and 

drink 
Water  of  healing  on  the  brink 

"  Where  clear  and  cold  from  mountain 

snows, 
The  Nahr  el  Zeben  downward  flows. 


ABRAM   MORRISON. 


425 


*  Six  moons  remain,  then  come  to  me  ; 
May  Allah's  pity  go  with  thee  !  " 

Awe-struck,  from   feast   and  wine,   the 

Khan 
Went  forth  where  Nahr  el  Zebeii  ran. 

Roots  were  his  food,  the  desert  dust 
His  bed,  the  water  quenched  his  thirst, 

And  when  the  sixth  moon's  scimetar 
Curved  sharp  above  the  evening  star, 

He  sought  again  the  santon's  door, 
Not  weak  and  trembling  as  before, 

But  strong  of  limb  and  clear  of  brain  ; 
"  Behold,"  he  said,  "  the  h'end  is  slain." 

"  Nay,"  Hamza  answered,  "  starved  and 

drowned, 
The  curst  one  lies  in  death-like  swound. 

"  But  evil  breaks  the  strongest  gyves, 
And  jius  like  him  have  charmed  lives. 

"One  beaker  of  the  juice  of  grape 
May  call  him  up  in  living  shape. 

"  When  the  red  wine  of  Badakshan 
Sparkles  for  thee,  beware,  0  Khan  ! 

"  With  water  quench  the  fire  within, 
And  drown  each  day  thy  devilkin !  " 

Thenceforth  the  great  Khan  shunned  the 

cup 
As  Shitan's  own,  though  offered  up, 

With  laughing  eyes  and  jewelled  hands, 
By  Yarkand's  maids  and  Samarcand's. 

And,  in  the  lofty  vestibule 

Of  the  medress  of  Kaush  Kodul, 

The  students  of  the  holy  law 
A  golden-lettered  tablet  saw, 

With  these  words,  by  a  cunning  hand, 
Graved  on  it  at  the  Khan's  command  : 

"  In  Allah's  name,  to  him  who  hath 
A  devil,  Khan  el  Hamed  saith, 

"  Wisely  our  Prophet  cursed  the  vine  : 
The   fiend   that    loves  the   breath  of 


"  No  prayer  can  slay,  no  marabout 
Nor  Meccan  dervis  can  drive  out. 

"  I,  Khan  el  Hamed,  know  the  charm 
That  robs  him  of  his  power  to  harm. 

"  Drown  him,  0  Islam's  child  !  the  spell 
To  save  thee  lies  in  tank  and  well !  " 


ABRAM  MORRISON. 

'MIDST  the  men  and  things  which  will 
Haunt  an  old  man's  memory  still, 
Drollest,  quaintest  of  them  all, 
With  a  boy's  laugh  I  recall 

Good  old  Abram  Morrison. 

When  the  Grist  and  Rolling  Mill 
Ground  and  rumbled  by  Po  Hill, 
And  the  old  red  school-house  stood 
Midway  in  the  Powow's  flood, 

Here  dwelt  Abram  Morrison. 

From  the  Beach  to  far  beyond 
Bear- Hill,  Lion's  Mouth  and  Pond, 
Marvellous  to  our  tough  old  stock, 
Chips  o'  the  Anglo-Saxon  block, 

Seemed  the  Celtic  Morrison. 

Mudknock,  Balmawhistle,  all 
Only  knew  the  Yankee  drawl, 
Never  brogue  was  heard  till  when, 
Foremost  of  his  countrymen, 

Hither  came  Friend  Morrison  ; 

Yankee  born,  of  alien  blood, 
Kin  of  his  had  well  withstood 
Pope  and  King  with  pike  and  ball 
Under  Derry's  leaguered  wall, 
As  became  the  Morrisons. 

Wandering  down  from  Nutfield  woods 
With  his  household  and  his  goods, 
Never  was  it  clearly  told 
How  within  our  quiet  fold 

Came  to  be  a  Morrison. 

Once  a  soldier,  blame  him  not 
That  the  Quaker  he  forgot, 
When,  to  think  of  battles  won, 
And  the  red-coats  on  the  run, 

Laughed  aloud  Friend  Morrison. 

From  gray  Lewis  over  sea 
Bore  his  sires  their  family  tree, 


426 


VOYAGE   OF   THE  JETTIE. 


On  the  rugged  boughs  of  it 
Grafting  Irish  mirth  and  wit, 

And  the  brogue  of  Morrison. 

Half  a  genius,  quick  to  plan, 
Blundering  like  an  Irishman, 
But  with  canny  shrewdness  lent 
By  his  far-off  Scotch  descent, 

Such  was  Abram  Morrison. 

Back  and  forth  to  daily  meals, 
Rode  his  cherished  pig  on  wheels, 
And  to  all  who  came  to  see  : 
"  Aisier  for  the  pig  an'  me, 

Sure  it  is,"  said  Morrison. 

Simple-hearted,  boy  o'er-grown, 
With  a  humor  quite  his  own, 
Of  our  sober-stepping  ways, 
Speech  and  look  and  cautious  phrase, 
Slow  to  learn  was  Morrison. 

Much  we  loved  his  stories  told 
Of  a  country  strange  and  old, 
Where  the  fairies  danced  till  dawn, 
And  the  goblin  Leprecaun 

Looked,  we  thought,  like  Morrison. 

Or  wild  tales  of  feud  and  fight, 
Witch  and  troll  and  second  sight 
Whispered  still  where  Stornoway 
Looks  across  its  stormy  bay, 

Once  the  home  of  Morrisons. 

First  was  he  to  sing  the  praise 
Of  the  Powow's  winding  ways ; 
And  our  straggling  village  took 
City  grandeur  to  the  look 
Of  its  poet  Morrison. 

All  his  words  have  perished.     Shame 
On  the  saddle-bags  of  Fame, 
That  they  bring  not  to  our  time 
One  poor  couplet  of  the  rhyme 

Made  by  Abram  Morrison  ! 

When,  on  calm  and  fair  First  Days, 
Rattled  down  our  one-horse  chaise 
Through  the  blossomed  apple-boughs 
To  the  old,  brown  meeting-house, 
There  was  Abram  Morrison. 

Underneath  his  hat's  broad  brim 
Peered  the  queer  old  face  of  him  ; 
And  with  Irish  jauntiness 
Swung  the  coat-tails  of  the  dress 
Worn  by  Abram  Morrison. 


Still,  in  memory,  on  his  feet, 
Leaning  o'er  the  elders'  seat, 
Mingling  with  a  solemn  drone, 
Celtic  accents  all  his  own, 

Rises  Abram  Morrison. 

"  Don't,"  he  's  pleading,  "  don't  ye  go, 
Dear  young  friends,  to  sight  and  show, 
Don't  run  after  elephants, 
Learned  pigs  and  presidents 

And  the  likes  !  "  said  Morrison. 

On  his  well-worn  theme  intent, 
Simple,  child-like,  innocent, 
Heaven  forgive  the  half-cheeked  smile 
Of  our  careless  boyhood,  while 

Listening  to  Friend  Morrison  ! 

We  have  learned  in  later  days 
Truth  may  speak  in  simplest  phrase ; 
That  the  man  is  not  the  less 
For  quaint  ways  and  home-spun  dress, 
Thanks  to  Abram  Morrison  ! 

Not  to  pander  nor  to  please 
Come  the  needed  homilies, 
With  no  lofty  argument 
Is  the  iitting  message  sent 

Through  such  lips  as  Morrison's 

Dead  and  gone  !     But  while  its  track 
Powow  keeps  to  Merrimack, 
While  Po  Hill  is  still  on  guard, 
Looking  land  and  ocean  ward. 

They  shall  tell  of  Morrison ! 

After  half  a  century's  lapse, 
We  are  wiser  now,  perhaps, 
But  we  miss  our  streets  amid 
Something  which  the  past  has  hid, 
Lost  with  Abram  Morrison. 

Gone  forever  with  the  queer 
Characters  of  that  old  year ! 
Now  the  many  are  as  one ; 
Broken  is  the*  mould  that  run 

Men  like  Abram  Morrison. 


VOYAGE  OF  THE  JETTIE.84 

A  SHALLOW  stream,  from  fountains 
Deep  in  the  Sandwich  mountains, 

Ran  lakeward  Bearcamp  River ; 
And,  between  its  flood-torn  shores, 
Sped  by  sail  or  urged  by  oars 

No  keel  had  vexed  it  ever. 


VOYAGE  OF  THE  JETTIE. 


427 


Alone  the  dead  crees  yielding 
To  the  dull  axe  Time  is  wielding, 

The  shy  mink  and  the  otter, 
And  golden  leaves  and  red, 
By  countless  autumns  shed, 

Had  floated  down  its  water. 

From  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann, 
Came  a  skilled  sea-faring  man, 

With  his  dory,  to  the  right  place  ; 
Over  hill  and  plain  he  brought  her, 
Where  the  boatless  Bearcamp  water 

Comes   winding    down   from    White- 
Face. 

Quoth  the  skipper  :  "  Ere  she  floats  fonth, 
I  'm  sure  my  pretty  boat  's  worth, 

At  least,  a  name  as  pretty." 
On  her  painted  side  he  wrote  it, 
And  the  flag  that  o'er  her  floated 

Bore  aloft  the  name  of  Jettie. 

On  a  radiant  morn  of  summer, 
Elder  guest  and  latest  comer 

Saw  her  wed  the  Bearcamp  water; 
Heard  the  name  the  skipper  gave  her. 
And  the  answer  to  the  favor 

From  the  Bay  State's  graceful  daugh 
ter. 

Then,  a  singer,  richly  gifted, 
Her  charmed  voice  uplifted ; 

And  the  wood-thrush  and  j>ong-sparrow 
Listened,  dumb  with  envious  pain, 
To  the  clear  and  sweet  refrain 

Whose  notes  they  could  not  borrow. 

Then  the  skipper  plied  his  oar, 
And  from  off  the  shelving  shore, 

Glided  out  the  strange  explorer ; 
Floating  on,  she  knew  not  whither,  — 
The  tawny  sands  beneath  her, 

The  great  hills  watching  o'er  her. 

On,  where  the  stream  flows  quiet 
As  the  meadows'  margins  by  it, 

Or  widens  out  to  borrow  a 
New  life  from  that  wild  water, 
The  mountain  giant's  daughter, 

The  pine-besung  Chocorua 

Or,  mid  the  tangling  cumber 
And  pack  of  mountain  lumber 

That  spring  floods  downward  force, 
Over  sunken  snag,  and  bar 
Where  the  grating  shallows  are, 

The  good  boat  held  her  course. 


Under  the  pine-dark  highlands, 
Around  the  vine-hung  islands, 

She  ploughed  her  crooked  furrow; 
And  her  rippling  and  her  lurches 
Scared  the  river  eels  and  perches, 

And  the  musk-rat  in  his  burrow. 

Every  sober  clam  below  her, 
Every  sage  and  grave  pearl-grower, 

Shut  his  rusty  valves  the  tighter  ; 
Crow  called  to  crow  complaining, 
And  old  tortoises  sat  craning 

Their  leathern  necks  to  sight  her. 

So,  to  where  the  still  lake  glasses 
The  misty  mountain  masses 

Rising  dim  and  distant  northward, 
And,  with  faint-drawn  shadow  pictures, 
Low  shores,  and  dead  pine  spectres, 

Blends  the  skyward   and    the  earth 
ward, 

On  she  glided,  overladen, 
With  merry  man  and  maiden 

Sending    back  their  song   and  laugh 

ter,— 

While,  perchance,  a  phantom  crew, 
In  a  ghostly  birch  canoe, 

Paddled  dumb  and  swiftly  after  ! 

And  the  bear  on  Ossipee 
Climbed  the  topmost  crag  to  see 

The  strange  thing  drifting  under ; 
And,  through  the  haze  of  August, 
Passacouaway  and  Paugus 

Looked  down  in  sleepy  wonder. 

All  the  pines  that  o'er  her  hung 
In  mimic  sea-tones  sung 

The  song  familiar  to  her ; 
And  the  maples  leaned  to  screen  her, 
And  the  meadow-grass  seemed  greener, 

And  the  breeze  more  soft  to  woo  her, 

The  lone  stream  mystery-haunted, 
To  her  the  freedom  granted 

To  scan  its  every  feature, 
Till  new  and  old  were  blended, 
And  round  them  both  extended 

The  loving  arms  of  Nature. 

Of  these  hills  the  little  vessel 
Henceforth  is  part  and  parcel ; 

And  on  Bearcamp  shall  her  log 
Be  kept,  as  if  by  George's 
Or  Grand  Menan,  the  surges 

Tossed  her  skipper  through  the  fog. 


428 


OUR   AUTOCRAT. 


And  I,  who,  half  in  sadness, 
Recall  the  morning  gladness 

Of  life,  at  evening  time, 
By  chance,  onlooking  idly, 
Apart  from  all  so  widely, 

Have  set  her  voyage  to  rhyme. 

Dies  now  the  gay  persistence 
Of  song  and  laugh,  in  distance; 

Alone  with  me  remaining 
The  stream,  the  quiet  meadow, 
The  hills  in  shine  and  shadow, 

The  sombre  pines  complaining. 

And,  musing  here,  I  dream 
Of  voyagers  on  a  stream 

From  whence  is  no  returning, 
Under  sealed  orders  going, 
Looking  forward  little,  knowing, 

Looking  back  with  idle  yearning. 

And  I  pray  that  every  venture 
The  port  of  peace  may  enter, 

That,  safe  from  snag  and  fall 
And  siren-haunted  islet, 
And  rock,  the  Unseen  Pilot 

May  guide  us  one  and  all. 


OUR  AUTOCRAT. 

READ  AT  DR.  HOLMES'  BREAKFAST. 

His  laurels  fresh  from  song  and  lay, 
Romance,  art,  science,  rich  in  all, 

And  young  of  heart,  how  dare  we  say 
We  keep  his  seventieth  festival  ? 

No  sense  is  here  of  loss  or  lack  ; 

Before  his  sweetness  and  his  light 
The  dial  holds  its  shadow  back, 

The  charmed  hours  delay  their  flight. 

His  still  the  keen  analysis 

Of  men  and  moods,  electric  wit, 

Free  play  of  mirth,  and  tenderness 
To  heal  the  slightest  wound  from  it. 

And  his  the  pathos  touching  all 
Life's  sins  and  sorrows  and  regrets, 

Its  hopes  and  fears,  its  final  call 
And  rest  beneath  the  violets. 

His  sparkling  surface  scarce  betrays 
The  thoughtful  tide  beneath  it  rolled, 

The  wisdom  of  the  latter  days, 
And  tender  memories  of  the  old. 


What  shapes  and  fancies,  grave  or  gay, 
Before  us  at  his  bidding  come  ! 

The   Treadmill   tramp,   the   One-Horse 

Shay, 
The  dumb  despair  of  Elsie's  doom ! 

The  tale  of  Avis  and  the  Maid, 

The  plea  for  lips  that  cannot  speak, 

The  holy  kiss  that  Iris  laid 
On  Little  Boston's  pallid  cheek ! 

Long  may  he  live  to  sing  for  us 
His  sweetest  songs  at  evening  time, 

And,  like  his  Chambered  Nautilus, 
To  holier  heights  oi  beauty  climb  ! 

Though  now  unnumbered  guests  sun 
round 

The  table  that  he  rules  at  will, 
Its  Autocrat,  however  crowned, 

Is  but  our  friend  and  comrade  still. 

The  world  may  keep  his  honored  name 
The  wealth  of  all  his  varied  powers  ; 

A  stronger  claim  has  love  than  fame, 
And  he  himself  is  only  ours  ! 


GARRISON. 

THE  storm  and  peril  overpast, 

The    hounding    hatred    shamed    and 

still, 

Go,  soul  of  freedom !  take  at  last 
The   place  which    thou    alone   canst 
fill. 

Confirm  the  lesson  taught  of  old  — 
Life  saved  for  self  is  lost,  while  they 

Who  lose  it  in  His  service  hold 
The  lease  of  God's  eternal  day. 

Not  for  thyself,  but  for  the  slave 

Thy  words  of  thunder  shook  the  world ; 

No  selfish  griefs  or  hatred  gave 

The  strength  wherewith  thy  bolts  were 
hurled. 

From  lips  that  Sinai's  trumpet  blew 
We  heard  a  tender  undersong  ; 

Thy  very  wrath  from  pity  grew, 

From  love  of  man  thy  hate  of  wrong 

Now  past  and  present  are  as  one  ; 

The  life  below  is  life  above  ; 
Thy  mortal  years  have  but  begun 

The  immortality  of  love. 


BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


429 


With  somewhat  of  thy  lofty  faith 
We  lay  thy  outworn  garment  by, 

Give  death  but  what  belongs  to  death, 
And  life  the  life  that  cannot  die  ! 

Not  for  a  soul  like  thine  the  calm 
Of  selfish  ease  and  joys  of  sense  ; 

But  duty,  more  than  crown  or  palm, 
Its  own  exceeding  recompense. 

Go  up  and  on  !  thy  day  well  done, 
Its  morning  promise  well  fulfilled, 

Arise  to  triumphs  yet  unwon, 
To  holier  tasks  that  God  has  willed. 

Go,  leave  behind  thee  all  that  mars 
The  work  below  of  man  for  man  ; 

With  the  white  legions  of  the  stars 
Do  service  such  as  angels  can. 

Wherever  wrong  shall  right  deny 
Or  suffering  spirits  urge  their  plea, 

Be  thine  a  voice  to  smite  the  lie, 
A  hand  to  set  the  captive  free  ! 


BAYAKD   TAYLOR. 


"  AND  where  now,  Bayard,  will  thy  foot 
steps  tend  ?  " 
My  sister  asked  our  guest  one  winter's 

day. 
Smiling  he  answered  in  the  Friends' 

sweet  way 
Common  to  both :  "  Wherever  thou  shalt 

send ! 
What   wouldst  thou   have  me   see  for 

thee '?  "     She  laughed, 
Her  dark  eyes  dancing  in  the  wood- 
fire's  glow : 
"Loffoden  isles,  the   Kilpis,  and  the 

low, 

Unsetting    sun    on    Finmark's    fishing- 
craft." 
"All  these  and  more  I  soon  shall  see 

for  thee  !  " 
He   answered  cheerily  :  and  he  kept 

his  pledge 
On  Lapland  snows,  the  North  Cape's 

windy  wedge, 

^nd  Tromso  freezing  in  its  winter  sea. 
He  went  and  came.  But  no  man  knows 

the  track 

Of  his  last  journey,  and  he  comes  not 
back! 


ii. 

He  brought  us  wonders  of  the  new  and 

old; 
We  shared  all  climes  with  him.     The 

Arab's  tent 

To  him  its  story-telling  secret  lent. 
And,  pleased,  we  listened  to  the  tales  he 

told. 
His  task,  beguiled  with  songs  that  shall 

endure, 
In    manly,    honest    thoroughness    he 

wrought ; 
From  humble  home-lays  to  the  heights 

of  thought 
Slowly  he  climbed,  but  every  step  was 

sure. 
How,  with  the  generous  pride  that  friend* 

ship  hath, 
We,  who  so  loved  him,  saw  at  last  the 

crown 
Of  civic  honor  on  his  brows  pressed 

down, 
Rejoiced,  and  knew  not  that  the  gift  was 

death. 
And   now   for   him,   whose  praise  in 

deafened  ears 

Two   nations   speak,  we    answer  but 
with  tears ! 


O  Vale  of    Chester!  trod  by  him    so 

oft, 

Green  as  thy  June  turf  keep  his  mem 
ory.     Let 
Nor  wood,  nor  dell,  nor  storied  stream 

forget, 

Nor  winds  that  blow  round  lonely  Cedar- 
croft  ; 
Let  the  home  voices  greet  him  in  the 

far, 
Strange  land  that  holds  him ;  let  the 

messages 
Of  love  pursue  him  o'er  the  chartless 

seas 
And  unmapped  vastness  of  his  unknown 

star ! 
Love's  language,  heard  beyond  the  loud 

discourse 

Of  perishable  fame,  in  every  sphere 
Itself    interprets ;    and   its    utterance 

here 

Somewhere    in    God's    unfolding    uni 
verse 
Shall  reach  our  traveller,  softening  the 

surprise 
Of  his  rapt  gaze  on  unfamiliar  skies ! 


430 


A    NAME. 


A  NAME. 

TO   G.   W.   P. 

THE  name  the  Gallic  exile  bore, 
St.  Malo  !  from  thy  ancient  mart, 

Became  upon  our  Western  shore 
Greenleaf  for  Feuillevert. 

A  name  to  hear  in  soft  accord 
Of  leaves  by  light  winds  overrun, 

Or  read,  upon  the  greening  sward 
Of  May,  in  shade  and  sun. 

The  name  my  infant  ear  first  heard 
Breathed  softly  with  a  mother's  kiss  ; 

His  mother's  own,  no  tenderer  word 
My  father  spake  than  this. 

No  child  have  I  to  bear  it  on ; 

Be  thou  its  keeper;  let  it  take 
From  gifts  well  used  and  duty  done 

New  beauty  for  thy  sake. 

The  fair  ideals  that  outran 

My  halting  footsteps  seek  and  find  — 
The  flawless  symmetry  of  man, 

The  poise  of  heart  and  mind. 

Stand  firmly  where  I  felt  the  sway 
Of  every  wing  that  fancy  flew, 

See  clearly  where  I  groped  my  way, 
Nor  real  from  seeming  knew. 

And  wisely  choose,  and  bravely  hold 
Thy    faith    unswerved    by    cross    or 
crown, 

Like  the  stout  Huguenot  of  old 
Whose  name  to  thee  comes  down. 

As  Marot's  songs  made  glad  the  heart 
Of  that  lone  exile,  haply  mine 

May  in  life's  heavy  hours  impart 
Some  strength  and  hope  to  thine. 

Yet  when  did  Age  transfer  to  Youth 
The  hard-gained  lessons  of  its  day  ? 

Each  lip  must  learn  the  taste  of  truth, 
Each  foot  must  feel  its  way. 

We  cannot  hold  the  hands  of  choice 
That  touch  or  shun  life's  fateful  keys; 

The  whisper  of  the  inward  voice 
Is  more  than  homilies. 

Dear  boy  !  for  whom  the  flowers  are  born, 
Stars  shine,  and  happy  song-birds  sing, 


What  can  my  evening  give  to  morn, 
My  winter  to  thy  spring  ! 

A  life  not  void  of  pure  intent, 

With  small  desert  of  praise  or  blame, 

The  love  I  felt,  the  good  I  meant, 
I  leave  thee  with  my  name. 


THE   MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER, 

IN  the  minister's  morning  sermon 
He  had  told  of  the  primal  fall, 

And  how  thenceforth  the  wrath  of  God 
Rested  on  each  and  all. 

And  how,  of  His  will  and  pleasure, 
All  souls,  save  a  chosen  few, 

Were  doomed  to  the  quenchless  burn 
ing, 
And  held  in  the  way  thereto. 

Yet  never  by  faith's  unreason 

A  saintlier  soul  was  tried, 
And  never  the  harsh  old  lesson 

A  tenderer  heart  belied. 

And,  after  the  painful  service 
On  that  pleasant  Sabbath  day, 

He  walked  with  his  little  daughter 
Through  the  apple-bloom  of  May. 

Sweet  in  the  fresh  green  meadows 
Sparrow  and  blackbird  sung; 

Above  him  their  tinted  petals 
The  blossoming  orchards  hung. 

Around  on  the  wonderful  glory 
The  minister  looked  and  smiled ; 

"  How  good  is  the  Lord  who  gives  us 
These  gifts  from  His  hand,  my  child. 

"  Behold  in  the  bloom  of  apples 
And  the  violets  in  the  sward 

A  hint  of  the  old,  lost  beauty 
Of  the  Garden  of  the  Lord !  " 

Then  up  spake  the  little  maiden, 
Treading  on  snow  and  pink  : 

"  O  father  !  these  pretty  blossoms 
Are  very  wicked,  I  think. 

"  Had  there  been  no  Garden  of  Eden 
There  never  had  been  a  fall ; 

And  if  never  a  tree  had  blossomed 
God  would  have  loved  us  all." 


THE   TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 


431 


"  Hush,  child  !  "  the  father  answered, 

"  By  His  decree  man  fell ; 
His  ways  are  in  clouds  and  darkness, 

But  He  doeth  all  things  well. 

"  And  whether  by  His  ordaining 

To  us  cometh  good  or  ill, 
Joy  or  paiu,  or  light  or  shadow, 

We  must  fear  and  love  Him  still." 

"  Oh,    I   fear   Him ! "    said   the   daugh 
ter, 

"  And  I  try  to  love  Him,  too  ; 
But  I  wish  lie  was  good  and  gentle, 

Kind  and  loving  as  you." 

The  minister  groaned  in  spirit 
As  the  tremulous  lips  of  pain 

And  wide,  wet  eyes  uplifted 
Questioned  his  own  in  vain. 

Bowing  his  head  he  pondered 

The  words  of  the  little  one ; 
Had    he    erred    in   his   life-long   teach 
ing  ? 

Had  he  wrong  to  his  Master  done  7 

To  what  grim  and  dreadful  idol 
Had  he  lent  the  holiest  name  ? 

Did  his  own  heart,  loving  and  human, 
The  God  of  his  worship  shame  ? 

And   lo !    from    the   bloom    and    green 
ness, 

From  the  tender  skies  above, 
And  the  face  of  his  little  daughter, 

He  read  a  lesson  of  love. 

No  more  as  the  cloudy  terror 

Of  Sinai's  mount  of  law, 
But  as  Christ  in  the  Syrian  lilies 

The  vision  of  God  he  saw. 

And,  as  when,  in  the  clefts  of  Horeb, 
Of  old  was  His  presence  known, 

The  dread  Ineffable  Glory 
Was  Infinite  Goodness  alone. 

Thereafter  his  hearers  noted 
In  his  prayers  a  tenderer  strain, 

And  never  the  gospel  of  hatred 
Burned  on  his  lips  again. 

And  the  scoffing  tongue  was  prayerful, 
And  the  blinded  eyes  found  sight, 

And  hearts,  as  flint  aforetime, 
Grew  soft  in  his  warmth  and  light. 


MY  TRUST. 

A  PICTURE  memory  brings  to  me  : 
I  look  across  the  years  and  see 
Myself  beside  my  mother's  knee. 

I  feel  her  gentle  hand  restrain 

My  selfish  moods,  and  know  again 

A  child's  bliud  sense  of  wrong  and  paiu 

But  wiser  now,  a  man  gray  grown, 
My  childhood's  needs  are  better  known, 
My  mother's  chastening  love  I  own. 

Gray  grown,  but  in  our  Father's  sight 
A  child  still  groping  for  the  light 
To  read  His  works  and  ways  aright. 

I  wait,  in  His  good  time  to  see 
That  as  my  mother  dealt  with  me 
So  with  His  children  dealeth  He. 

I  bow  myself  beneath  His  hand : 
That  pain  itself  was  wisely  planned 
I  feel,  and  partly  understand. 

The  joy  that  comes  in  sorrow's  guise, 
The  sweet  pains  of  self-sacrifice, 
I  would  not  have  them  otherwise. 

And  what  were  life  and  death  if  sin 
Knew  not  the  dread  rebuke  within, 
The  pang  of  merciful  discipline  ? 

Not  with  thy  proud  despair  of  old, 
Crowned  stoic  of  Rome's  noblest  mould  ! 
Pleasure  and  pain  alike  I  hold. 

I  suffer  with  no  vain  pretence 
Of  triumph  over  flesh  and  sense, 
Yet  trust  the  grievous  providence, 

How  dark  soe'er  it  seems,  may  tend, 
By  ways  I  cannot  comprehend, 
To  some  unguessed  benignant  end; 

That  every  loss  and  lapse  may  gain 
The  clear-aired  heights  by  steps  of  pain, 
And  never  cross  is  borne  in  vain. 


THE  TRAILING   ARBUTUS. 

I  WANDERED  lonely  where   the    pine- 
trees  made 

Against  the  bitter  East  their  barricade, 
And,  guided  by  its  sweet 


432 


BY   THEIR  WORKS. 


Perfume,  I  found,  within  a  narrow  dell, 
The  trailing  spring  flower  tinted  like  a 

shell 
Amid  dry  leaves  and  mosses  at  my 

feet. 

From  under  dead  boughs,  for  whose  loss 
the  pines 

Moaned  ceaseless  overhead,  the  blossom 
ing  vines 
Lifted  their  glad  surprise, 

While  yet  the  bluebird  smoothed  in  leaf 
less  trees 

His  feathers   ruffled  by  the  chill    sea- 
breeze, 

And  snow-drifts  lingered  under  April 
skies. 

As,   pausing,   o'er  the  lonely  flower  I 

bent, 
I  thought  of  lives  thus  lowly,  clogged 

and  pent, 

Which  yet  find  room, 
Through  care  and  cumber,  coldness  and 

decay, 

To  lend  a  sweetness  to  the  ungenial  day 
And  make  the  sad  earth  happier  for 

their  bloom. 


BY   THEIR  WORKS. 

CALL  him  not  heretic  whose  works  at 
test 

His  faith  in  goodness  by  no  creed  con 
fessed. 

Whatever  in  love's  name  is  truly  done 

To  free  the  bound  and  lift  the  fallen 
one 

Is  done  to  Christ.  Whoso  in  deed  and 
word 

Is  not  against  Him  labors  for  our  Lord. 

When  He,  who,  sad  and  weary,  longing 
sore 

For  love's  sweet  service,  sought  the  sis 
ters'  door, 

One  saw  the  heavenly,  one  the  human 
guest, 

But  who  shall  say  which  loved  the  Mas 
ter  best  ? 


THE  WORD. 

VOICE  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  making  known 
Man  to  himself,  a  witness  swift  and 
sure, 


Warning,   approving,   true   and   wise 

and  pure, 
Counsel   and  guidance  that  misleadeth 

none  ! 

By  thee  the  mystery  of  life  is  read  ; 
The  picture-writing  of  the  world's  gray 

seers, 
The  myths  and  parables  of  the  primal 

years, 

Whose  letter  kills,  by  thee  interpreted 
Take   healthful  meanings  fitted   to  our 

needs, 

And  in  the  soul's  vernacular  express 
The  common  law  of  simple  righteous 
ness. 
Hatred   of   cant   and   doubt   of   human 

creeds 

May  well  be  felt :  the  unpardonable  sin 
Is  to  deny  the  Word  of  God  within  ! 


THE  BOOK. 

GALLERY  of  sacred  pictures  manifold, 
A  minster  rich  in  holy  effigies, 
And  bearing  on  entablature  and  frieze 
The  hieroglyphic  oracles  of  old. 
Along  its  transept  aureoled  martyrs  sit ; 
And  the  low  chancel   side-lights  half 

acquaint 
The  eye  with  shrines  of  prophet,  bard, 

and  saint, 
Their    age-dimmed     tablets    traced    in 

doubtful  writ! 

But  only  when  on  form  and  word  obscure 
Falls  from  above  the  white   supernal 

light 

We  read  the  mystic  characters  aright, 
And  life  informs  the  silent  portraiture, 
Until  we  pause  at  last,  awe-held,  before 
The  One   ineffable  Face,  love,  wonder, 
and  adore. 


REQUIREMENT. 

WE  live  by  Faith  ;  but  Faith  is  not  the 

slave 
Of  text  and  legend.     Reason's  voice 

and  God's, 

Nature's  and  Duty's,  never  are  at  odds. 
What  asks  our  Father  of  His  children, 

save 

Justice  and  mercy  and  humility, 
A  reasonable  service  of  good  deeds, 
Pure    living,    tenderness    to    human 
needs, 


THE   INWARD   JUDGE. 


433 


Reverence  and  trust,  and  prayer  for  light 

to  see 
The   Master's   footprints    in    our   daily 

ways  ? 

No  knotted  scourge  nor  sacrificial  knife, 

But  the  calm  beauty  of  an  ordered  life 

Whose   very     breathing     is     uuworded 

praise !  — 
A  life  that  stands  as  all  true  lives  have 

stood, 
Firm-rooted  in  the  faith  that  God  is  Good. 


HELP. 

DREAM  not,  0   Soul,  that  easy  is  the 

task 
Thus  set  before  thee.     If  it  proves  at 

length, 
As  well  it   may,  beyond  thy  natural 

strength, 
Faint  not,  despair  not.     As  a  child  may 

ask 

A  father,  pray  the  Everlasting  Good 
For  light  and  guidance  midst  the  subtle 

snares 

Of  sin  thick  planted  in  life's  thorough 
fares, 

For  spiritual  strength  and  moral  hardi 
hood  ; 
Still  listening,  through  the  noise  of  time 

and  sense, 
To   the   still   whisper  of   the   Inward 

Word  ; 
Bitter    in    blame,    sweet   in   approval 

heard, 

Itself  its  own  confirming  evidence  : 
To  health  of  soul  a  voice  to  cheer  and 

please, 
To  guilt  the  wrath  of  the  Eumenides. 


UTTERANCE. 

BUT   what   avail    inadequate   words   to 

reach 
The  innermost  of  Truth  ?     Who  shall 

essav, 
Blinded  and  weak,  to  point  and  lead 

the  way, 

Or  solve  its  mystery  in  familiar  speech  ? 

Yet,  if  it  be  that  something  not  thy  own, 

Some  shadow  of  the  Thought  to  which 

our  schemes, 
Creeds,  cult,  and  ritual  are  at  best  but 

dreams, 

ts  even  to  thy  unworthiuess  made  known, 
27 


Thou  mayst   not  hide  what  yet    thou 

shouldst  not  dare 

To  utter  lightly,  lest  on  lips  of  thine 
The  real  seem  false,  the   beauty  un- 

divine. 

So,  weighing  duty  in  the  scale  of  prayer, 
Give  what   seems  given   thee.     It  may 

prove  a  seed 

Of  goodness  dropped  in  fallow-grounds 
of  need. 


INSCRIPTIONS. 
ON  A   SUN-DIAL. 

FOR   DR.    HENRY    I.    BOWDITCH. 

WITH    warning   hand    I   mark   Time's 

rapid  flight 
From  life's  glad  morning  to  its  solemn 

night ; 
Yet,  through  the  dear  God's  love,  I  also 

show 
There  's  Light  above  me  by  the  Shade 

below. 

ON  A  FOUNTAIN. 

FOR    DOROTHEA    L.    DIX. 

STRANGER  and  traveller 

Drink  freely,  and  bestow 
A  kindly  thought  on  her 

Who  bade  this  fountain  flow, 
Yet  hath  no  other  claim 

Than  as  the  minister 
Of  blessing  in  God's  name. 

Drink,  and  in  His  peace  go ! 


ORIENTAL   MAXIMS. 


PARAPHRASE   OF   SANSCRIT  TRANSLA 
TIONS. 


THE   INWARD  JUDGE. 

FROM    "  INSTITUTES   OF   MANU." 

THE  soul  itself  its  awful  witness  is. 
Say  not  in  evil  doing,  "  No  one  sees," 
And  so  offend  the  conscious  One  within, 
Whose  ear  can  hear  the  silences  of  sin 


434 


THE   BAY   OF   SEVEN  ISLANDS. 


Ere  they  find  voice,  whose  eyes  unsleep 
ing  see 
The  secret  motions  of  iniquity. 

Nor  in  thy  folly  say,  "  I  am  alone." 
For,  seated  in  thy  heart,  as  on  a  throne, 
The  ancient  Judge  and  Witness  liveth 

still, 
To  note  thy  act  and  thought ;  and  as  thy 

ill 
Or  good  goes  from  thee,  far  beyond  thy 

reach, 
The  solemn  Doomsman's  seal  is  set  on 

each. 


LAYING  UP   TREASURE. 
FROM  THE  "MAH\BHARATA." 

BEFORE  the  Ender  comes,  whose  char 
ioteer 

Is  swift  or  slow  Disease,  lay  up  each 
year 


Thy  harvests  of  well-doing,  wealth  that 
kings 

Nor  thieves  can  take  away.  When  all 
the  things 

Thou  callest  thine,  goods,  pleasures,  hon 
ors  fall, 

Thou  in  thy  virtue  shall  survive  them 
all 


CONDUCT. 

FROM    THE    "  MAHABHARATA." 

HEED  how  thou  livest.     Do  no  act  by 

day 
Which  from  the  night  shall  drive  thy 

peace  away. 
In  months  of  sun  so  live  that  months  of 

rain 

Shall  still  be  happy.     Evermore  restrain 
Evil   and   cherish   good,   so   shall  there 

be 
Another  and  a  happier  life  for  thee. 


THE   BAY  OF   SEVEN   ISLANDS, 

AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


TO   EDWIN  P.   WHIPPLE, 

ONE  OP  THE  FIRST  TO  WELCOME  MY  EARLIEST  VOLUME,   I   OFFER  THE 

LATEST,    AS   A  TOKEN   OF   FRIENDSHIP   NEVER   INTERRUPTED, 

AND  WHICH  YEARS  HAVE  ONLY  STRENGTHENED. 


TO  H.  P.   S. 

FROM  the  green  Amesbury  hill  which 

bears  the  name 

Of  that  half  mythic  ancestor  of  mine 
Who  trod  its  slopes  two  hundred  years 

ago, 

Down  the  long  valley  of  the  Merrimac 
Midway   between    me    and   the    river's 

mouth, 

I  see  thy  home,  set  like  an  eagle's  nest 
Among  Deer  Island's  immemorial  pines, 
Crowning  the  crag  on  which  the  sunset 

breaks 


Its  last  red  arrow.     Many  a  tale  and 

song, 
Which  thou  hast  told  or  sung,  I  call  to 

mind, 
Softening  with  silvery  mist  the  woods 

and  hills, 

The  out-thrust  headlands  and  in  reach 
ing  bays 
Of  our  northeastern  coast-line,  trending 

where 
The  Gulf,  midsummer,  feels  the  chill 

blockade 
Of  icebergs   stranded  at  its   northern 

gate. 


EDWIN    P.  WHIPPLE.     Page  434. 


THE   BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS. 


435 


To  thee  the  echoes  of  the  Island  Sound 
Answer    not    vainly,  nor   in   vain    the 

moan 
Of    the    South     Breaker    prophesying 

storm. 
And  thou  hast  listened,  like  myself,  to 

men 

Sea-periled  oft  where  Anticosti  lies 
Like  a  fell  spider  in  its  web  of  fog, 
Or  where  the  Grand  Bank  shallows  with 

the  wrecks 
Of  sunken  fishers ;  and  to  whom  strange 

isles 

And  frost-rimmed  bays  and  trading  sta 
tions  seem 
Familiar    as    Great    Neck   and    Kettle 

Cove, 
Nubble  and  Boon,  the  common  names  of 

home. 

So  let  me  offer  thee  this  lay  of  mine, 
Simple  and  homely,  lacking  much  thy 

play 

Of  color  and  of  fancy.     If  its  theme 
And  treatment  seem   to  thee   befitting 

youth 

Rather  than  age,  let  this   be  my  ex 
cuse  : 
It  has  beguiled  some  heavy  hours  and 

called 
Some  pleasant  memories  up ;  and,  better 

still, 

Occasion  lent  me  for  a  kindly  word 
To  one  who  is   my   neighbor  and   my 
friend. 


THE  BAY  OF   SEVEN  ISLANDS. 

THE  skipper  sailed  out  of  the  harbor 
mouth, 

Leaving  the  apple-bloom  of  the  South 
For  the  ice  of  the  Eastern  seas, 
In  his  fishing  schooner  Breeze. 

Handsome  and  brave   and  young  was 

he, 
And  the  rnaids  of  Newbury  sighed  to 

see 

His  lessening  white  sail  fall 
Under  the  sea's  blue  wall. 

Through   the   Northern   Gulf   and  the 
misty  screen 

Of  the  isles  of  Mingan  and  Madeleine, 
St.  Paul's  and  Blanc  Sablon, 
The  little  Breeze  sailed  on, 


Backward  and  forward,  along  the  shore 
Of  lorn  and  desolate  Labrador, 
And  found  at  last  her  way 
To  the  Seven  Islands  Bay. 

The  little  hamlet,  nestling  below 
Great  hills  white  with  lingering  snow, 
With  its  tin-roofed  chapel  stood 
Half  hid  in  the  dwarf  spruce  wood  ; 

Green-turfed,  flower-sown,  the  last  out 
post 
Of  summer  upon  the  dreary  coast, 

With  its  gardens  small  and  spare, 

Sad  in  the  frosty  air. 

Hard  by  where  the  skipper's  schooner 
lay, 

A  fisherman's  cottage  looked  away 
Over  isle  and  bay,  and  behind 
On  mountains  dim-defined. 

And  there  twin  sisters,  fair  and  young, 
Laughed  with  their  stranger  guest,  and 

sung 

In  their  native  tongue  the  lays 
Of  the  old  Proven9al  days. 

Alike   were   they,   save  the  faint  out 
line 
Of  a  scar  on  Suzette's  forehead  fine  ; 

And  both,  it  so  befell, 

Loved  the  heretic  stranger  well. 

Both  were  pleasant  to  look  upon, 

But  the  heart  of  the  skipper  clave  to 

one; 

Though  less  by  his  eye  than  heart 
He  knew  the  twain  apart. 

Despite  of  alien  race  and  creed, 

Well    did    his  wooing    of    Marguerite 

speed ; 

And  the  mother's  wrath  was  vain 
As  the  sister's  jealous  pain. 

The  shrill-tongued  mistress  her  house 

forbade, 

And  solemn  warning  was  sternly  said 
By  the   black-robed   priest,   whose 

word 
As  law  the  hamlet  heard. 

But  half  by  voice  and  half  by  signs 
The  skipper  said,  "  A  warm  sun  shines 

On  the  green-banked  Merrimac ; 

Wait,  watch,  till  I  come  back. 


436 


THE   BAY  OF   SEVEN  ISLANDS. 


"  And  when  you   see,   from   my   mast 

head, 
The  signal  fly  of  a  kerchief  red, 

My  boat  on  the  shore  shall  wait ; 

Come,  when  the  night  is  late." 

Ah!  weighed   with   childhood's  haunts 
and  friends, 

And  all  that  the  home  sky  overbends, 
Did  ever  young  love  fail 
To  turn  the  trembling  scale? 

Under  the  night,  on  the  wet  sea  sands, 
Slowly  unclasped  their  plighted  hands  : 
One  to  the  cottage  hearth, 
And  one  to  his  sailor's  berth. 

What  was  it  the  parting  lovers  heard  ? 

Nor  leaf,  nor  ripple,  nor  wing  of  bird, 
But  a  listener's  stealthy  tread 
On  the  rock-moss,  crisp  and  dead. 

He  weighed  his  anchor,  and  fished  once 

more 

By  the  black  coast-line  of  Labrador  ; 
And  by  love  and  the  north  wind 

driven, 
Sailed  back  to  the  Islands  Seven. 

In  the  sunset's  glow  the  sisters  twain 
Saw  the  Breeze  come  sailing  in  again; 
Said  Suzette,  "  Mother  dear, 
The  heretic's  sail  is  here." 

"  Go,   Marguerite,  to  your   room,   and 

hide; 
Your  door  shall  be  bolted  !  "  the  mother 

cried  : 

While  Suzette,  ill  at  ease, 
Watched  the  red  sign  of  the  Breeze. 

At  midnight,  down  to  the  waiting  skiff 
She  stole  in  the  shadow  of  the  cliff; 
And  out  of  the  Bay's  mouth  ran 
The  schooner  with  maid  and  man. 

And  all  night  long,  on  a  restless  bed, 
Her  prayers  to  the  Virgin   Marguerite 
said  ; 

And  thought  of  her  lover's  pain 

Waiting  for  her  in  vain. 

Did  he  pace  the  sands  ?     Did  he  pause 
to  hear 

The  sound  of  her  light  step  drawing  near1? 
And,  as  the  slow  hours  passed, 
Would  he  doubt  her  faith  at  last  ? 


But  when  she  saw  through  the  misty 
pane, 

The  morning  break  on  a  sea  of  rain, 
Could  even  her  love  avail 
To  follow  his  vanished  sail  ? 

Meantime   the    Breeze,   with    favoring 
wind, 

Left  the  rugged  Moisic  hills  behind, 
And  heard  from  an  unseen  shore 
The  falls  of  Mauitou  roar. 

On   the   morrow's   morn,  in  the  thick. 

gray  weather 
They  sat  on  the  reeling  deck  together, 

Lover  and  counterfeit, 

Of  hapless  Marguerite. 

With  a  lover's  hand,  from  her  forehead 

fair 
He  smoothed  away  her  jet-black  hair. 

What  was  it  his  fond  eyes  met  ? 

The  scar  of  the  false  Suzette ! 

Fiercely  he  shouted  :  "  Bear  away 
East  by  north  for  Seven  Isles  Bay  !  " 
The  maiden  wept  and  prayed, 
But  the  ship  her  helm  obeyed. 

Once  more  the  Bay  of  the  Isles  they 

found  : 
They  heard    the    bell    of    the    chapel 

sound, 

And  the  chant  of  the  dying  sung 
In  the  harsh,  wild  Indian  tongue. 

A  feeling  of  mystery,  change,  and  awe 
Was  in  all  they  heard  and  all  they  saw  : 
Spell-bound  the  hamlet  lay 
In  the  hush  of  its  lonely  bay. 

And  when  they  came   to  the  cottage 

door, 
The  mother  rose  up  from  her  weeping 

sore, 

And  with  angry  gestures  met 
The  scared  lock  of  Suzette. 

"  Here  is  your  daughter,"  the  skipper 

said ; 
"  Give  me  the  one  I  love  instead." 

But  the  woman  sternly  spake ; 

"  Go,  see  if  the  dead  will  wake  ! " 

He  looked.     Her  sweet  face    still   ana 

white 
And  strange  in  the  noonday  taper  light, 


HOW   THE  WOMEN  WENT   FROM   DOVER. 


437 


She  lay  on  her  little  bed, 

With  the  cross  at  her  feet  and  head. 

In  a  passion  of  grief  the  strong  man  bent 
Down  to  her  face,  and,  kissing  it,  went 
Back  to  the  waiting  Breeze, 
Back  to  the  mournful  seas. 

Never  again  to  the  Merrimac 

And  Newbury's  homes  that  bark  came 

back. 

Whether  her  fate  she  met 
On  the  shores  of  Carraquette, 

Miscou,  or  Tracadie,  who  can  say  ? 

But  even  yet  at  Seven  Isles  Bay 
Is  told  the  ghostly  tale 
Of  a  weird,  unspoken  sail, 

In  the  pale,  sad  light  of  the  Northern 
day 

Seen  by  the  blanketed  Montagnais, 
Or  squaw,  in  her  small  kyack, 
Crossing  the  spectre's  track. 

On  the  deck  a  maiden  wrings  her  hands  ; 

Her  likeness  kneels  on   the   gray    coast 

sands; 

One  in  her  wild  despair, 
And  one  in  the  trance  of  prayer. 

She  flits  before  no  earthly  blast, 

The  red  sign  fluttering  from  her  mast, 

Over  the  solemn  seas, 

The  ghost  of  the  schooner  Breeze  ! 


HOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM 
DOVER. 

1662. 

THE  tossing  spray  of  Cocheco's  fall 

Hardened  to  ice  on  its  rocky  wall, 

As  through  Dover   town   in   the  chill, 

gray  dawn, 
Three  women   passed,  at  the  cart-tail 

drawn  ! l 


Bared  to  the  waist,  for  the  north  wind's 

grip 
And   keener    sting    of   the    constable's 

whip, 
The  blood    that  followed  each  hissing 

blow 
Froze  as  it  sprinkled  the  winter  snow. 

Priest  and  ruler,  boy  and  maid 
Followed  the  dismal  cavalcade  ; 
And  from  door  and  window,  open 

thrown, 
Looked  and  wondered  gaffer  and  crone. 

"  God  is  our  witness,"  the  victims  cried, 

"  We  suffer  for  Him  who  for  all  men 
died; 

The  wrong  ye  do  has  been  done  be 
fore, 

We  bear  the  stripes  that  the  Master 
bore! 

"  And  thou,  O    Richard   Waldron,  for 

whom 

We  hear  the  feet  of  a  coming  doom, 
On  thy  cruel  heart   and    thy    hand    of 

wrong- 
Vengeance  is  sure,  though  it  tarry  long. 

"  In  the  light  of  the  Lord,  a  flame  we 

see 

Climb  and  kindle  a  proud  roof-tree  ; 
And  beneath  it  an  old  man  lying  dead, 
With  stains  of  blood  on  his  hoary  head." 

these  vagabond  Quakers  are  carried  out  of  this 
jurisdiction. 

You,  and  every  one  of  you,  are  required,  in 
the  King's  Majesty's  name,  to  take  these  vaga 
bond   Quakers.  Anne  Colrnan,  Mary  Tomkins, 
and  Alice  Ambrose,  and  make  them  fast  to  the 
cart's  tail,  and  driving  the  cart  through  your 
several  towns,  to  whip  them  upon  their  naked 
backs  not  exceeding  ten  stripes  apiece  on  each 
i  of  them,  in  each  town  ;  and  so  to  convey  them 
I  from  constable  to  constable  till  they  are  out  of 
!  this  jurisdiction,  as  you  will  answer  it  at  your 
i  peril ;  and  this  shall  be  your  warrant. 

RICHARD  WALDRON. 
Dated  at  Dover,  December  22,  1662. 


1  The  following  is  a  copy  of  the  warrant 
issued  by  Major  \Vaidron,  of  Dover,  in  1662.  I 
The  Quakers,  as  was  their  wont,  prophesied  : 
against  him,  and  saw,  as  they  supposed,  the  i 
fulfillment  of  their  prophecy  when,  many  years  ' 
after,  he  was  killed  by  the  Indians. 

To  the  constables  of  Dover,  Hampton,  Salis 
bury,  Newbury,  Rowley,  Ipswich,  Wenham 
Lynn,  Boston,  Roxbury,  Dcdham,  and  until  i 


This  warrant  was  executed  only  in  Dover 
and  Hampton.  At  Salisbury  the  constable  re 
fused  to  obey  it.  He  was  sustained  by  the 
town's  people,  who  were  under  the  influence 
of  Major  Robert  Pike,  the  leading  man  in  the 
lower  valley  of  the  Merrimac,  who  stood  far  in 
advance  of  his  time,  as  an  advocate  of  religious 
freedom,  and  an  opponent  of  ecclesiastical  au 
thority.  He  had  the  moral  courage  to  address 
an  able  and  manly  letter  to  the  court  at  Salem, 
remonstrating  against  the  witchcraft  trials. 


438 


HOW   THE   WOMEN   WENT   FROM   DOVER. 


"  Smite,  Goodman  Hate-Evil !  —  harder 

still !  " 
The  magistrate  cried,  "  lay  on  with  a 

will! 
Drive  out  of  their  bodies  the  Father  of 


Who  through  them  preaches  and  proph- 


So  into  the  forest  they  held  their  way, 
By  winding  river  and  frost  -  rimmed 

bay, 

Over  wind-swept  hills  that  felt  the  beat 
Of  the  winter  sea  at  their  icy  feet. 

The  Indian  hunter,  searching  his  traps, 
Peered  stealthily  through  the  forest 

gaps  ; 
And    the    outlying    settler    shook    his 

head, — 
"  They  're  witches  going  to  jail,"  he  said. 

At  last  a  meeting-house  came  in  view ; 
A  blast  on  his  horn  the  constable  blew ; 
And  the  boys  of  Hampton  cried  up  and 

down, 
"  The   Quakers    have   come ! "    to   the 

wondering  town. 

From  barn  and  woodpile  the  goodman 
came  ; 

The  goodwife  quitted  her  quilting  frame, 

With  her  child  at  her  breast ;  and,  hob 
bling  slow, 

The  grandam  followed  to  see  the  show. 

Once  more  the  torturing  whip  was 
swung, 

Once  more  keen  lashes  the  bare  flesh 
stung. 

"  Oh,  spare  !  they  are  bleeding !  "  a  lit 
tle  maid  cried, 

And  covered  her  face  the  sight  to  hide. 

A  murmur  ran  round  the  crowd :  "  Good 

folks," 
Quoth  the  constable,  busy  counting  the 

strokes, 


"  Drink,   poor   hearts !  "   a   rude   hand 


smote 


Her    draught    away   from   a    parching 


They  have  beaten  the  gospel  black  and 
blue  !  " 

Then   a  pallid  woman,    in    wild  -  eyed 

fear, 
With  her  wooden  noggin  of  milk  drew 

near. 


throat. 


"  Take  heed,"  one  whispered,  "  they  '11 

take  your  cow 
For  fines,  as  they  took  your  horse  and 

plow, 
And  the  bed  from  under  you."     "  Even 

so," 
She  said.     "  They  are  cruel  as  death,  I 

know." 

Then    on   they  passed,   in   the  waning 

day, 
Through    Seabrook  woods,   a   weariful 

way; 
By  great   salt  meadows  and  sand-hills 

bare, 
And  glimpses  of  blue  sea  here  and  there. 

By  the  meeting  -  house  in  Salisbury 
town, 

The  sufferers  stood,  in  the  red  sun 
down, 

Bare  for  the  lash  !     0  pitying  Night, 

Drop  swift  thy  curtain  and  hide  the 
sight ! 

With  shame  in  his  eye  and  wrath  on  his 

lip 
The    Salisbury   constable    dropped    his 

whip. 
"  This  warrant  means  murder  foul  and 

red; 
Cursed  is  he  who  serves  it,"  he  said. 

"  Show  me   the  order,  and   meanwhile 

strike 
A   blow   at  your   peril ! "   said  Justice 

Pike. 

Of  all  the  rulers  the  land  possessed, 
Wisest  and  boldest  was  he  and  best. 

He  scoffed  at  witchcraft;  the  priest  he 

met 
As  man  meets  man  ;  his  feet  he  set 


'  No  pity  to  wretches  like  these  is  due,      Beyond    his    dark    age,    standing    up- 


right, 

Soul-free,  with  his  face  to  the  morning 
light. 

He  read  the  warrant :  "These  convey 
From  our  precincts  ;  at  every  town  on  tht 
way 


A   SUMMER   PILGRIMAGE. 


439 


Give  each  ten  lashes."     "  God  judge  the 

brute ! 
I  tread  his  order  under  my  foot ! 

"  Cut  loose  these  poor  ones  and  let  them 

g°; 

Come  what  will  of  it,  all  men  shall  know 
No  warrant  is  good,  though  hacked  by 

the  Crown, 
For    whipping     women     in     Salisbury 

town  !  " 

The  hearts  of  the  villagers,  half  re 
leased 

From  creed  of  terror  and  rule  of  priest, 
By  a  primal  instinct  owned  the  right 
Of  human  pity  in  law's  despite. 

For  ruth  and  chivalry  only  slept, 
His  Saxon  manhood  the  yeoman  kept  ; 
Quicker  or  slower,  the  same  blood  ran 
In  the  Cavalier  and  the  Puritan. 

The    Quakers   sank   on    their  knees  in 

praise 

And  thanks.  A  last,  low  sunset  blaze 
Flashed  out  from  under  a  cloud,  and 

shed 
A  golden  glory  on  each  bowed  head. 

The  tale  is  one  of  an  evil  time, 

When  souls  were  fettered  and  thought 

was  crime, 

And  heresy's  whisper  above  its  breath 
Meant  shameful  scourging  and  bonds 

and  death  ! 

What   marvel,   that  hunted  and  sorely 

tried, 

Even  woman  rebuked  and  prophesied, 
And  soft  words  rarely  answered  back 
The  grim  persuasion  of  whip  and  rack.1 

If  her  cry  from  the  whipping-post  and 

jail 
Pierced  sharp  as  the   Kenite's  driven 

nail, 

O  woman,  at  ease  in  these  happier  days, 
Forbear  to  judge  of  thy  sister's  ways"! 

How  much  thy  beautiful  life  may  owe 

To  her  faith  and  courage  thou  canst  not 
know, 

Nor  how  from  the  paths  of  thy  calm  re 
treat 

She  smoothed  the  thorns  with  her  bleed 
ing  feet. 


A  SUMMER  PILGRIMAGE. 

To  kneel  before  some  saintly  shrine, 
To  breathe  the  health  of  airs  divine, 
Or  bathe  where  sacred  rivers  flow, 
The  cowled  and  turbaned  pilgrims  go. 
I  too,  a  palmer,  take,  as  they 
With  staff  and  scallop-shell,  my  way 
To  feel,  from  burdening  cares  and  ills. 
The  strong  uplifting  of  the  hills. 

The  years  are  many  since,  at  first, 
For  dreamed-of  wonders  all  athirst, 
I  saw  on  Winnepesaukee  fall 
The  shadow  of  the  mountain  wall. 
Ah  !  where  are  they  who  sailed  with  me 
The  beautiful  island-studded  sea? 
And  am  I  he  whose  keen  surprise 
Flashed  out  from  such  unclouded  eyes  ? 

Still,  when  the  sun  of  summer  burns, 
My  longing  for  the  hills  returns  ; 
And  northward,  leaving  at  my  back 
The  warm  vale  of  the  Merrimac, 
I  go  to  meet  the  winds  of  morn, 
Blown  down  the  hill -gaps,  mountain- 
born, 

Breathe  scent  of  pines,  and  satisfy 
The  hunger  of  a  lowland  eye. 

Again  I  see  the  day  decline 
Along  a  ridged  horizon  line  ; 
Touching  the  hill-tops,  as  a  nun 
Her  beaded  rosary,  sinks  the  sun. 
One  lake  lies  golden,  which  shall  soon 
Be  silver  in  the  rising  moon  ; 
And  one,  the  crimson  of  the  skies 
And  mountain  purple  multiplies. 

With  the  untroubled  quiet  blends 
The  distance-softened  voice  of  friends  ; 
The  girl's  light  laugh  no  discord  brings 
To  the  low  song  the  pine-tree  sings  ; 
And,  not  unwelcome,  comes  the  hail 
Of  boyhood  from  his  nearing  sail. 
The  human  presence  breaks  no  spell, 
And  sunset  still  is  miracle  ! 

Calm  as  the  hour,  methinks  I  feel 
A  sense  of  worship  o'er  me  steal ; 
Not  that  of  satyr-charming  Pan, 
No  cult  of  Nature  shaming  man, 
Not  Beauty's  self,  but  that  which  lives 
And    shines    through    all   the   veils   it 

weaves,  — 

Soul  of  the  mountain,  lake,  and  wood, 
Their  witness  to  the  Eternal  Good ! 


440 


THE   ROCK-TOMB  OF   BRADORE. 


And  if,  by  fond  illusion,  here 

The    earth  to   heaven  seems    drawing 

near, 

And  yon  outlying  range  invites 
To  other  and  serener  heights, 
Scarce  hid  behind  its  topmost  swell, 
The  shining  Mounts  Delectable  ! 
A  dream  may  hint  of  truth  no  less 
Than  the  sharp  light  of  wakefulness. 

As  through  her  veil  of  incense  smoke 
Of  old  the  spell-rapt  priestess  spoke, 
More  than  her  heathen  oracle, 
May  not  this  trance  of  sunset  tell 
That  Nature's  forms  of  loveliness 
Their  heavenly  archetypes  confess, 
Fashioned  like  Israel's  ark  alone 
From    patterns    in    the    Mount    made 
known  ? 

A  holier  beauty  overbroods 

These  fair  and  faint  similitudes  ; 

Yet  not  unblest  is  he  who  sees 

Shadows  of  God's  realities, 

And  knows  beyond  this  masquerade 

Of  shape  and  color,  light  and  shade, 

And    dawn    and     set,    and    wax     and 

wane, 
Eternal  verities  remain. 

0  gems  of  sapphire,  granite  set ! 

0  hills  that  charmed  horizons  fret ! 

1  know  how  fair  your  morns  can  break, 
In  rosy  light  on  isle  and  lake  ; 

How  over  wooded  slopes  can  run 
The  noonday  play  of  cloud  and  sun, 
And  evening  droop  her  oriflamme 
Of  gold  and  red  in  still  Asquam. 

The  summer  moons  may  round  again, 
And  careless  feet  these  hills  profane  ; 
These  sunsets  waste  on  vacant  eyes 
The  lavish  splendor  of  the  skies  ; 
Fashion  and  folly,  misplaced  here, 
Sigh  for  their  natural  atmosphere, 
And  traveled  pride  the  outlook  scorn 
Of  lesser  heights  than  Matterhoru  : 

But  let  me  dream  that  hill  and  sky 
Of  unseen  beauty  prophesy ; 
And  in  these  tinted  lakes  behold 
The  trailing  of  the  raiment  fold 
Of  that  which,  still  eluding  gaze, 
Allures  to  upward-tending  ways, 
Whose  footprints  make,  wherever  found, 
Our  common  earth  a  holy  ground. 


THE  ROCK-TOMB  OF  BRADORE 

A  DREAR  and  desolate  shore ! 
Where  no  tree  unfolds  its  leaves, 
And  never  the  spring  wind  weaves 
Green  grass  for  the  hunter's  tread 
A  land  forsaken  and  dead, 
Where  the  ghostly  icebergs  go 
And  come  with  the  ebb  and  flow 

Of  the  waters  of  Bradore  .• 

A  wanderer,  from  a  land 

By  summer  breezes  fanned, 

Looked  round  him,  awed,  subdued, 

By  the  dreadful  solitude, 

Hearing  alone  the  cry 

Of  sea-birds  clanging  by, 

The  crash  and  grind  of  the  floe, 

Wail  of  wind  and  wash  of  tide. 

"  0  wretched  land  !  "  he  cried, 

"  Lxnd  of  all  lands  the  worst, 

God  forsaken  and  curst ! 

Thy  gates  of  rock  should  show 

The  words  the  Tuscan  seer 
Read  in  the  Realm  of  Woe  : 

Hope  entereth  not  here  !  " 

Lo  !  at  his  feet  there  stood 
A  block  of  smooth  larch  wood, 
Waif  of  some  wandering  wave, 
Beside  a  rock-closed  cave 
By  Nature  fashioned  for  a  grave, 
Safe  from  the  ravening  bear 
And  fierce  fowl  of  the  air, 
Wherein  to  rest  was  laid 
A  twenty  summers'  maid, 
Whose  blood  had  equal  share 
Of  the  lands  of  vine  and  snow, 
Half  French,  half  Eskimo. 
In  letters  uneflfaced, 
Upon  the  block  were  traced 
The  grief  and  hope  of  man, 
And  thus  the  legend  ran  : 

"  We  loved  her  ! 
Words  cannot  tell  how  well  I 

We  loved  her! 

God  loved  her  ! 
And  called  her  home  to  peace  and  rest. 

We  love  her!" 

The  stranger  paused  and  read. 

"  0  winter  land  !  "  he  said, 

"  Thy  right  to  be  I  own  ; 

God  leaves  thee  not  alone. 

And  if  thy  fierce  winds  blow 

Over  drear  wastes  of  rock  and  snow, 


THE  WISHING  BRIDGE. 


441 


And  at  thy  iron  gates 
The  ghostly  iceberg  waits, 

Thy  homes  and  hearts  are  dear. 
Thy  sorrow  o'er  thy  sacred  dust 
Is  sanctified  by  hope  and  trust ; 

God's  love  and  man's  are  here. 
And  love  where'er  it  goes 
Makes  its  own  atmosphere  ; 
Its  flowers  of  Paradise 
Take  root  in  the  eternal  ice, 

And  bloom  through  Polar  snows  !  " 


STORM   ON  LAKE  ASQUAM. 

A  CLOUD,  like  that  the  old-time  Hebrew 

saw 

On    Carmel    prophesying    rain,    be 
gan 

To  lift  itself  o'er  wooded  Cardigan, 
Growing  and  blackening.     Suddenly,  a 
flaw 

Of  chill  wind  menaced  ;  then  a  strong 

blast  beat 
Down   the  long  valley's  murmuring 

pines,  and  woke 
The  noon-dream  of  the  sleeping  lake, 

and  broke 

Its  smooth  steel  mirror  at   the  moun 
tains'  feet. 

Thunderous    and    vast,    a    fire  -  veined 

darkness  swept 
Over  the  rough  pine-bearded  Asquam 

range  ; 
A  wraith  of  tempest,  wonderful  and 

strange, 

From  peak   to    peak    the  cloudy  giant 
stepped. 

One    moment,    as    if   challenging    the 

storm, 

Chocorua's  tall,  defiant  sentinel 
Looked   from   his  watch-tower;  then 

the  shadow  fell, 

And  the  wild   rain-drift  blotted  out  his 
form. 

And  over  all  the  still  unhidden  sun, 
Weaving    its    light     through     slant- '. 

blown  veils  of  rain, 
Smiled  on  the  trouble,  as  hope  smiles 

on  pain  ; 

And,  when   the  tumult   and  the  strife 
were  done, 


With  one  foot  on  the  lake  and  one  on  laud, 
Framing  within  his  crescent's  tinted 

streak 

A  far-off  picture  of  the  Melvin  peak, 
Spent  broken  clouds  the  rainbow's  an 
gel  spanned. 


THE   WISHING  BRIDGE. 

AMONG  the  legends  sung  or  said 

Along  our  rocky  shore, 
The  Wishing  Bridge  of  Marblehead 

May  well  be  sung  once  more. 

An  hundred  years  ago  (so  ran 

The  old-time  story)  all 
Good  wishes  said  above  its  span 

Would,  soon  or  late,  befall. 

If  pure  and  earnest,  never  failed 
The  prayers  of  man  or  maid 

For  him  who  on  the  deep  sea  sailed, 
For  her  at  home  who  stayed. 

Once  thither  came  two  girls  from  school, 
And  wished  in  childish  glee  : 

And  one  would  be  a  queen  and  rule, 
And  one  the  world  would  see. 

Time  passed ;  with  change  of  hopes  and 
fears, 

And  in  the  self-same  place, 
Two  women,  gray  with  middle  years, 

Stood,  wondering,  face  to  face. 

With  wakened  memories,  as  they  met, 
They  queried  what  had  been : 

"  A  poor  man's  wife  am  I,  and  yet," 
Said   one,  "  I  am  a  queen. 

"  My  realm  a  little  homestead  is, 
Where,  lacking  crown  and  throne, 

I  rule  by  loving  services 
And  patient  toil  alone." 

The    other    said  :    "  The    great    world 
lies 

Beyond  me  as  it  laid  ; 
O'er  love's  and  duty's  boundaries 

My  feet  have  never  strayed. 

"  I  see  but  common  sights  of  home, 

Its  common  sounds  I  hear, 
My  widowed  mother's  sick-bed  room 

Sufficeth  for  my  sphere. 


442 


THE   MYSTIC  S  CHRISTMAS. 


"  I  read  to  her  some  pleasant  page 

Of  travel  far  and  wide, 
And  in  a  dreamy  pilgrimage 

We  wander  side  by  side. 

"  And  when,  at  last,  she  falls  asleep, 

My  book  becomes  to  me 
A  magic  glass  :  my  watch  I  keep, 

But  all  the  world  I  see. 

"  A  farm-wife  queen  your  place  you  fill, 

While  fancy's  privilege 
Is  mine  to  walk  the  earth  at  will, 

Thanks  to  the  Wishing  Bridge." 

"  Nay,  leave  the  legend  for  the  truth," 

The  other  cried,  "  and  say 
God  gives  the  wishes  of  our  youth 

But  in  His  own  best  way  !  " 


THE  MYSTIC'S    CHRISTMAS. 

"ALL   hail!"   the   bells   of    Christmas 

rang, 
"  All  hail !  "  the   monks  at   Christmas 

sang, 

The  merry  monks  who  kept  with  cheer 
The  gladdest  day  of  all  their  year. 

But  still  apart,  unmoved  thereat, 
A  pious  elder  brother  sat 
Silent,  in  his  accustomed  place, 
With  God's  sweet  peace  upon  his  face. 

'*  Why  sitt'st  thou  thus  1 "  his  brethren 

cried. 

"  It  is  the  blessed  Christmas-tide  ; 
The  Christmas  lights  are  all  aglow, 
The  sacred  lilies  bud  and  blow. 

"  Above  our  heads  the  joy -bells  ring, 
Without  the  happy  children  sing, 
And  all  God's  creatures  hail  the  morn 
On  which  the  holy  Christ  was  born  ! 

"  Rejoice  with  us ;  no  more  rebuke 
Our  gladness  with  thy  quiet  look." 
The  gray  monk  answered  :  "  Keep,  I 

pray, 
Even  as  ye  list,  the  Lord's  birthday. 

"  Let  heathen  Yule  fires  flicker  red 
Where  thronged  refectory  feasts  are 

spread  ; 

With  mystery-play  and  masque  and  mime 
And  wait-songs  speed  the  holy  time ! 


"  The  blindest  faith  may  haply  save  ; 
The  Lord  accepts  the  things  we  have ; 
And  reverence,  howsoe'er  it  strays, 
May  find  at  last  the  shining  ways. 

"  They  needs  must   grope  who   cannot 

see, 

The  blade  before  the  ear  must  be  ; 
As  ye  are  feeling  I  have  felt, 
And  where  ye  dwell  I  too  have  dwelt. 

"  But  now,  beyond  the  things  of  sense, 
Beyond  occasions  and  events, 
I  know,  through  God's  exceeding  grace, 
Release  from  form  and  time  and  place. 

"  I  listen,  from  no  mortal  tongue, 
To  hear  the  song  the  angels  sung  ; 
And  wait  within  myself  to  know 
The  Christmas  lilies  bud  and  blow. 

"  The  outward  symbols  disappear 
From  him  whose  inward  sight  is  clear, 
And  small  must  be  the  choice  of  days 
To  him  who  fills  them  all  with  praise  1 

"  Keep  while  you  need  it,  brothers  mine, 
With  honest  zeal  your  Christmas  sign, 
But  judge  not  him  who  every  morn 
Feels   in    his    heart    the    Lord    Christ 
born !  " 


WHAT    THE    TRAVELER    SAID 

AT   SUNSET. 

THE  shadows  grow   and   deepen    round 
me, 

I  feel  the  dew-fall  in  the  air  ; 
The  muezzin  of  the  darkening  thicket 

I  hear  the  night-thrush  call  to  prayer. 

The  evening  wind  is  sad  with  farewells, 
And  loving  hands  unclasp  from  mine  ; 

Alone  I  go  to  meet  the  darkness 
Across  an  awful  boundary-line. 

As  from  the  lighted  hearths  behind  me 

I  pass  with  slow,  reluctant  feet, 
What  waits  me  in  the  land   of  strange 
ness  ? 

What  face  shall    smile,    what    voice 
shall  greet  ? 

What  space  shall  awe,  what  brightness 

blind  me  ? 
What  thunder-roll  of  music  stun  ? 


A  GREETING. 


443 


What  vast  processions  sweep  before  me 
Of  shapes  unknown  beneath  the  sun  ? 

I  shrink  from  unaccustomed  glory, 
I  dread  the  myriad-voiced  strain  ; 

Give  me  the  unforgotten  faces, 
And  let  my  lost  ones  speak  again. 

He  will  not  chide  my  mortal  yearning 
Who  is  our  Brother  and  our  Friend  ; 

In  whose  full  life,  divine  and  human, 
The  heavenly  and  the  earthly  blend. 

Mine  be  the  joy  of  soul-communion, 
The  sense  of  spiritual  strength   re 
newed, 

The  reverence  for  the  pure  and  holy, 
The  dear  delight  of  doing  good. 

No  fitting  ear  is  mine  to  listen 
An  endless  anthem's  rise  and  fall ; 

No  curious  eye  is  mine  to  measure 
The  pearl  gate  and  the  jasper  wall. 

For  love  must  needs  be  more  than  knowl 
edge  : 

What  matter  if  I  never  know 
Why  Aldebaran's  star  is  ruddy, 

Or  warmer  Sinus  white  as  snow  ! 

Forgive  my  human  words,  O  Father  ! 

I  go  Thy  larger  truth  to  prove  ; 
Thy  mercy  shall  transcend  my  longing  : 

I  seek  but  love,  and  Thou  art  Love  ! 

I  go  to  find  my  lost  and  mourned  for 
Safe  in  Thy  sheltering  goodness  still,  ' 

And  all  that  hope  and  faith  foreshadow 
Made  perfect  in  Thy  holy  will ! 


A  GREETING. 

HARRIET    BEECHER   STOWED    SEVENTI 
ETH    ANNIVERSARY,    1882. 

THRICE   welcome    from    the   Land  of 

Flowers 

And  golden-fruited  orange  bowers 
To  this  sweet,   green  -  turfed  June  of 

ours ! 

To  her  who,  in  our  evil  time, 
Dragged  into  light  the  nation's  crime 
With  strength   beyond  the   strength  of 

men, 
And,   mightier  than  their  swords,  her 

pen! 


To  her  who  world-wide  entrance  gave 
To  the  log-cabin  of  the  slave  ; 
Made  all  his  wrongs  and  sorrows  known, 
And  all  earth's  languages  his  own,  — 
North,  South,  and  East  and  West,  made 

all 

The  common  air  electrical, 
Until  the  o'ercharged  bolts  of  heaven 
Blazed    down,    and    every    chain    was 

riven  ! 

Welcome  from  each  and  all  to  her 
Whose  Wooing  of  the  Minister 
Revealed  the  warm  heart  of  the  man 
Beneath  the  creed-bound  Puritan, 
And  taught  the  kinship  of  the  love 
Of  man  below  and  God  above  ; 
To  her  whose  vigorous  pencil-strokes 
Sketched  into  life  her  Oldtown  Folks, — 
Whose  fireside  stories,  grave  or  gay, 
In  quaint  Sam  Lawson's  vagrant  way, 
With  old  New  England's  flavor  rife, 
Waifs  from  her  rude  idyllic  life, 
Are  racy  as  the  legends  old 
By  Chaucer  or  Boccaccio  told  ; 
To  her  who  keeps,  through  change  of 

place 

And  time,  her  native  strength  and  grace, 
Alike  where  warm  Sorrento  smiles, 
Or  where,  by  birchen-shaded  isles, 
Whose    summer    winds    have  shivered 

o'er 

The  icy  drift  of  Labrador, 
She  lifts  to  light  the  priceless  Pearl 
Of  Harpswell's  angel-beckoned  girl ! 
To  her  at  threescore  years  and  ten 
Be  tributes  of  the  tongue  and  pen  ; 
Be  honor,  praise,  and  heart-thanks  given, 
The  loves  of  earth,  the  hopes  of  heaven ! 

Ah,  dearer  than  the  praise  that  stirs 
The  air  to-day,  our  love  is  hers  ! 
She  needs  no  guaranty  of  fame 
Whose   own  is  linked   with   Freedom's 

name. 

Long  ages  after  ours  shall  keep 
Her  memory  living  while  we  sleep ; 
The  waves  that  wash  our  gray  coast 

lines, 

The  winds  that  rock  the  Southern  pines, 
Shall  sing  of  her  ;  the  unending  years 
Shall  tell  her  tale  in  unborn  ears. 
And  when,  with  sins  and  follies  past, 
Are  numbered  color-hate  and  caste, 
White,    black,   and   red   shall   own  as 

one 
The  noblest  work  by  woman  done. 


444 


WILSON. 


WILSON.i 

THE  lowliest  born  of  all  the  land, 
He  wrung  from  Fate's  reluctant  hand 

The    gifts    which    happier    boyhood 

claims ; 

And,  tasting  on  a  thankless  soil 
The  bitter  bread  of  unpaid  toil, 

He  fed  his  soul  with  noble  aims. 

And  Nature,  kindly  provident, 
To  him  the  future's  promise  lent ; 

The  powers  that  shape  man's  destinies, 
Patience  and  faith  and  toil,  he  knew, 
The  close  horizon  round  him  grew, 

Broad  with  great  possibilities. 

By  the  low  hearth-fire's  fitful  blaze 
He  read  of  old  heroic  days, 

The    sage's    thought,    the    patriot's 

speech  ; 

Unhelped,  alone,  himself  he  taught, 
His  school  the  craft  at  which  he  wrought, 

His  lore  the  book  within  his  reach. 

He  felt  his  country's  need  ;  he  knew 
The  work  her  children  had  to  do ; 

And  when,  at  last,  he  heard  the  call 
In  her  behalf  to  serve  and  dare, 
Beside  his  senatorial  chair 

He  stood  the  unquestioned  peer  of  all. 

Beyond  the  accident  of  birth 

He  proved  his  simple  manhood's  worth  ; 

Ancestral  pride  and  classic  grace 
Confessed  the  large-brained  artisan, 
So  clear  of  sight,  so  wise  in  plan 

And  counsel,  equal  to  his  place. 

With  glance  intuitive  he  saw 
Through  all  disguise  of  form  and  law, 

And  read  men  like  an  open  book  ; 
Fearless  and  firm,  he  never  quailed 
Nor  turned  aside  for  threats,  nor  failed 

To  do  the  thing  he  undertook. 

How  wise,  how  brave,  he  was,  how  well 
He  bore  himself,  let  history  tell 

While  waves  our  flag  o'er  land  and 

sea, 

No  black  thread  in  its  warp  or  weft ; 
He  found  dissevered  States,  he  left 

A  grateful  Nation,  strong  and  free  ! 

1  Read  at  the  Massachusetts  Club  on  the  sev 
entieth  anniversary  of  the  birthday  of  Vice- 
President  Wilson. 


IN  MEMORY. 


As  a  guest  who  may  not  stay 
Long  and  sad  farewells  to  say 
Glides  with  smiling  face  away, 

Of  the  sweetness  and  the  zest 
Of  thy  happy  life  possessed 
Thou  hast  left  us  at  thy  best. 

Warm  of  heart  and  clear  of  brain, 
Of  thy  sun-bright  spirit's  wane 
Thou  hast  spared  us  all  the  pain. 

Now  that  thou  hast  gone  away, 
What  is  left  of  one  to  say 
Who  was  open  as  the  day  ? 

What  is  there  to  gloss  or  shun  ? 
Save  with  kindly  voices  none 
Speak  thy  name  beneath  the  sun. 

Safe  thou  art  on  every  side, 
Friendship  nothing  finds  to  hide, 
Love's  demand  is  satisfied. 

Over  manly  strength  and  worth, 
At  thy  desk  of  toil,  or  hearth, 
Played  the  lambent  light  of  mirth,  — 

Mirth  that  lit,  but  never  burned  ; 
All  thy  blame  to  pity  turned  ; 
Hatred  thou  hadst  never  learned. 

Every  harsh  and  vexing  thing 
At  thy  home-fire  lost  its  sting  ; 
Where  thou  wast  was  always  spring. 

And  thy  perfect  trust  in  good, 
Faith  in  man  and  womanhood, 
Chance    and    change    and    time   with 
stood. 

Small  respect  for  cant  and  whine, 
Bigot's  zeal  and  hate  malign, 
Had  that  sunny  soul  of  thine. 

But  to  thee  was  duty's  claim 
Sacred,  and  thy  lips  became 
Reverent  with  one  holy  Name. 

Therefore,  on  thy  unknown  way, 
Go  in  God's  peace  !     We  who  stay 
But  a  little  while  delay. 


RABBI   ISHMAEL. 


445 


Keep  for  us,  0  friend,  where'er 
Thou  art  waiting,  all  that  here 
Made  thy  earthly  presence  dear 

Something  of  thy  pleasant  past 
On  a  ground  of  wonder  cast, 
In  the  stiller  waters  glassed  ! 

Keep  the  human  heart  of  thee  ; 
Let  the  mortal  only  be 
Clothed  in  immortality. 

And  when  fall  our  feet  as  fell 

Thine  upon  the  asphodel, 

Let  thy  old  smile  greet  us  well ; 

Proving  in  a  world  of  bliss 
What  we  fondly  dream  in  this,- 
Love  is  one  with  holiness  ! 


THE  POET   AND   THE  CHIL 
DREN. 

H.   W.    L. 

WITH  a  glory  of  winter  sunshine 

Over  his  locks  of  gray, 
In  the  old  historic  mansion 

He  sat  on  his  last  birthday  ; 

With  his  books  and    his  pleasant  pic 
tures, 

And  his  household  and  his  kin, 
While  a  sound  as  of  myriads  singing 

From  far  and  near  stole  in. 

It  came  from  his  own  fair  city, 
From  the  prairie's  boundless  plain, 

From  the  Golden  Gate  of  sunset, 
And  the  cedarn  woods  of  Maine. 

And  his  heart  grew  warm  within  him, 
And  his  moistening  eyes  grew  dim, 

For  he  knew  that   his   country's   chil 
dren 
Were  singing  the  songs  of  him  : 

The  lays  of  his  life's  glad  morning, 
The  psalms  of  his  evening  time, 

Whose  echoes  shall  float  forever 
On  the  winds  of  every  clime. 

All  their  beautiful  consolations, 
Sent  forth  like  birds  of  cheer, 

Came  flocking  back  to  his  windows, 
And  sang  in  the  Poet's  ear. 


Grateful,  but  solemn  and  tender, 

The  music  rose  and  fell 
With  a  joy  akin  to  sadness 

And  a  greeting  like  farewell. 

With  a  sense  of  awe  he  listened 
To  the  voices  sweet  and  young  ; 

The  last  of  earth  and  the  first  of  heaven 
Seemed  in  the  songs  they  sung. 

And  waiting  a  little  longer 

For  the  wonderful  change  to  come, 
He  heard  the  Summoning  Angel, 

Who  calls  God's  children  home  ! 

And  to  him  in  a  holier  welcome 
Was  the  mystical  meaning  given 

Of  the  words  of  the  blessed  Master  : 
"  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ! '' 


RABBI  ISHMAEL. 

THE  Rabbi  Ishmael,with  the  woe  and  sin 
Of  the  world  heavy  upon  him,  entering 

in 

The  Holy  of  Holies,  saw  an  awful  Face 
With    terrible   splendor   filling   all   the 

place. 

"  O  Ishmael  Ben  Elisha !  "  said  a  voice, 
"  What  seekest  thou  ?     What  blessing 

is  thy  choice  ?  " 
And,  knowing  that  he  stood  before  the 

Lord, 

Within  the,  shadow  of  the  cherubim, 
Wide-winged  between  the  blinding  light 

and  him, 
He   bowed   himself,  and  uttered  not  a 

word, 

But  in  the  silence  of  his  soul  was  prayer  : 
"  0  Thou  Eternal !     I  am  one  of  all, 
And  nothing  ask  that  others  may  not 

share. 
Thou  art  almighty;   we  are  weak  and 

small, 
And  yet  thy  children  :    let  thy  mercy 

spare !  " 
Trembling,  he  raised  his  eyes,  and  in  tic 

place 

Of  the  insufferable  glory,  lo  !  a  face 
Of  more  than  mortal   tenderness,  that 

bent 

Graciously  down  in  token  of  assent, 
And,  smiling,  vanished  !     With  strange 

joy  elate, 

The  wondering  Rabbi  sought  the  tem 
ple's  gate. 


446 


VALUATION. 


Radiant  as  Moses  from  the  Mount,  he 
stood 

And  cried  aloud  unto  the  multitude  : 

"  0  Israel,  hear  !  The  Lord  our  God  is 
good ! 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  his  glory  and  his 
grace ; 

Beyond  his  judgments  shall  his  love  en 
dure  ; 

The  mercy  of  the  All  Merciful  is  sure !  " 


VALUATION. 

THE  old  Squire  said,  as  he  stood  by  his 

gate, 
And  his  neighbor,  the  Deacon,  went 

by, 

"In  spite  of   my  bank  stock   and   real 

estate, 
You  are  better  off,  Deacon,  than  I. 

"  We  're  both  growing  old,  and  the  end  's 

drawing  near, 

You  have  less  of  this  world  to  resign, 
But  in  Heaven's  appraisal  your  assets,  I 

fear, 
Will  reckon  up  greater  than  mine. 

"  They  say  I  am  rich,  but  I  'm  feeling 

so  poor, 

I  wish  I  could  swap  with  you  even  : 
The  pounds  I  have  lived  for  and  laid  up 

in  store 

For  the  shillings  and  pence  you  have 
given." 

"  Well,  Squire,"  said  the  Deacon,  with 

shrewd  common  sense, 
While  his  eye  had  a  twinkle  of  fun, 
"Let  your  pounds  take  the  way  of  my 

shillings  and  pence, 
And  the  thing  can  be  easily  done  !  " 


WINTER   ROSES.1 

MY  garden  roses  long  ago 

Have   perished   from  the  leaf-strewi 

walks  ; 
Their  pale,  fair  sisters  smile  no  more 

Upon  the  sweet-brier  stalks. 


1  In  reply  to  a  flower  gift  from  Mrs.  Putnam  > 
school  at  Jamaica  Plain. 


Gone  with  the  flower-time  of  my  life, 
Spring's   violets,  summer's    blooming 
pride, 

And  Nature's  winter  and  my  own 
Stand,  flowerless,  side  by  side. 

So  might  I  yesterday  have  sung  ; 

To-day,  in  bleak  December's  noon, 
Come   sweetest  fragrance,   shapes,  and 
hues, 

The  rosy  wealth  of  June ! 

Bless  the  young  hands  that  culled  the 

gift, 

And  bless  the  hearts  that  prompted  it  •, 
If  undeserved  it  comes,  at  least 
It  seems  not  all  unfit. 

Of  old  my  Quaker  ancestors 

Had  gifts  of  forty  stripes  save  one  ; 

To-day  as  many  roses  crown 
The  gray  head  of  their  son. 

And  with  them,  to  my  fancy's  eye, 
The  fresh-faced  givers  smiling  come, 

And  nine  and  thirty  happy  girls 
Make  glad  a  lonely  room. 

They  bring  the  atmosphere  of  youth  ; 

The  light  and  warmth  of  long  ago 
Are  in  my  heart,  and  on  my  cheek 

The  airs  of  morning  blow. 

O  buds  of  girlhood,  yet  unblown, 
And  fairer  than  the  gift  ye  chose, 

For  you  mav  years  like  leaves  unfold 
The  heart  of  Sharon's  rose ! 


HYMN. 

(lOU     THE  AMERICAN    HORTICULTURA  I 
SOCIETY.) 

1882. 

O  PAINTER  of  the  fruits  and  flowers, 

We  own  Thy  wise  design, 
Whereby  these  human  hands  of  ours 

May  share  the  work  of  Thine  ! 

Apart  from  Thee  we  plant  in  vain 

The  root  and  sow  the  seed ; 
Thy  early  and  Thy  later  rain, 

Thy  sun  and  dew  we  need. 

Our  toil  is  sweet  with  thankfulness, 
Our  burden  is  our  boon ; 


AT   LAST. 


447 


The  curse  of  Earth's  gray  morning  is 
The  blessing  of  its  noon. 

Why  search  the  wide  world  everywhere 
For  Eden's  unknown  ground  ?  — 

That  garden  of  the  primal  pair 
May  nevermore  be  found. 

But,  blest  by  Thee,  our  patient  toil 
May  right  the  ancient  wrong, 

And  give  to  every  clime  and  soil 
The  beauty  lost  so  long. 

Our  homestead  flowers  and  fruited  trees 
May  Eden's  orchard  shame  ; 

We  taste  the  tempting  sweets  of  these 
Like  Eve,  without  her  blame. 

And,  North  and  South  and  East  and  West 

The  pride  of  every  zone, 
The  fairest,  rarest,  and  the  best 

May  all  be  made  our  own. 

Its    earliest  shrines  the  young   world 
sought 

In  hill-groves  and  in  bowers, 
The  fittest  offerings  thither  brought 

Were  Thy  own  fruits  and  flowers. 

And  still  with  reverent  hands  we  cull 
Thy  gifts  each  year  renewed  ; 

The  good  is  always  beautiful, 
The  beautiful  is  good. 


GODSPEED. 


/ 


OUTBOUND,    your   bark    awaits    you. 

Were  I  one 
Whose    prayer  availeth    much,    my 

wish  should  be 
Your   favoring   trade-wind  and  con 

senting  sea. 

By  sail  or  steed  was  never  love  outrun, 
And,  here  or  there,  love  follows   her   in 

whom 

All  graces  and  sweet  charities  unite, 
The  old  Greek   beauty   set  in   holier 

light  ; 
And  her  for  whom  New  England's   by 

ways  bloom, 
Who  walks  among  us  welcome  as  the 

Spring, 
Calling  up  blossoms  where  her  light 

feet  stray. 

God  keep  you  both,  make   beautiful 
your  way, 


Comfort,  console,  and  bless  ;  and  safely 

bring, 

Ere  yet  I  make  upon  a  vaster  sea 
The  unreturning  voyage,  my  friends  to 

me. 

AT  LAST. 

WHEN  on  my  day   of  life   the   night  is 

falling, 
And,   in   the   winds  from   unsunned 

spaces  blown, 

I  hear  far  voices  out  of  darkness  calling 
My  feet  to  paths  unknown, 

Thou  who  hast  made  my  home  of  life  so 

pleasant, 

Leave  not  its  tenant   when  its   walls 
decay  ; 

0  Love  Divine,  O  Helper  ever  present, 
Be  Thou  my  strength  and  stay ! 

Be  near  me  when  all   else   is  from   me 

drifting : 
Earth,  sky,  home's  pictures,  days  of 

shade  and  shine, 

And  kindly  faces  to  my  own  uplifting 
The  love  which  answers  mine. 

1  have  but  Thee,  my  Father !  let  Thy 

spirit 

Be  with  me  then  to  comfort  and   up 
hold; 

No  gate  of  pearl,  no  branch  of  palm  I 
merit, 

Nor  street  of  shining  gold. 

Suffice  it  if  —  my  good  and  ill  unreck- 

oned, 

And  both  forgiven  through  Thy  aboun 
ding  grace  — 

I  find  myself   by  hands   familiar  beck 
oned 
Unto  my  fitting  place. 

Some  humble  door  among   Thy   many 

mansions, 
Some  sheltering  shade  where  sin  and 

striving  cease, 
And  flows    forever    through    heaven's 

green  expansions 
The  river  of  Thy  peace. 

There,  from  the  music  round  about  me 

stealing, 

I  fain  would  learn  the  new  and  holy 
song, 


448 


OUR  COUNTRY. 


And  find  at  last,  beneath  Thy  trees  of 

healing, 
The  life  for  which  I  long. 


OUR  COUNTRY. 

READ  AT   WOODSTOCK,    CONN.,   JULY 
4,    1883. 

WE  give  thy  natal  day  to  hope, 
O  Country  of  our  love  and  prayer  ! 

Thy  way  is  down  no  fatal  slope, 
But  up  to  freer  sun  and  air. 

Tried  as  by  furnace-fires,  and  yet 
By  God's  grace  only  stronger  made, 

In  future  task  before  thee  set 

Thou  shalt  not  lack  the    old  -  time 
aid. 

The  fathers  sleep,  but  men  remain 
As  wise,  as  true,  and  brave  as  they  ; 

Why  count  the  loss  and  not  the  gain  ?  — 
The  best  is  that  we  have  to-day. 

Whate'er  of  folly,  shame,  or  crime, 
Within  thy  mighty  bounds  transpires, 

With  speed  defying  space  and  time 
Comes  to  us  on  the  accusing  wires; 

While  of  thy  wealth  of  noble  deeds, 
Thy  homes  of  peace,  thy  votes  un 
sold, 

The  love  that  pleads  for  human  needs, 
The  wrong    redressed,    but    half    is 
told! 

We  read  each  felon's  chronicle, 

His  acts,  his  words,  his  gallows-mood ; 

We  know  the  single  sinner  well 
And  not  the  nine  and  ninety  good. 

Yet  if,  on  daily  scandals  fed, 

We  seem  at  times  to  doubt  thy  worth, 
We  know  thee  still,  when  all  is  said, 

The  best  and  dearest  spot  on  earth. 

From  the  warm  Mexic  Gulf,  or  where 
Belted  with  flowers  Los  Angeles 

Basks  in  the  semi-tropic  air, 

To  where  Katahdin's  cedar  trees 

Are    dwarfed    and  bent  by  Northern 
winds, 

Thy  plenty's  horn  is  yearly  filled  ; 
Alone,  the  rounding  century  finds 

Thy  liberal  soil  by  free  hands  tilled. 


A  refuge  for  the  wronged  and  poor, 
Thy  generous  heart  has  borne  thq 

blame 
That,  with    them,  through    thj  open 

door, 
The  old  world's  evil  outcasts  came. 

But,  with  thy  just  and  equal  rule, 
And    labor's  need    and    breadth    of 

lands, 
Free  press    and  rostrum,   church  and 

school, 
Thy  sure,  if  slow,  transforming  hand^ 

Shall  mould  even  them  to  thy  design, 
Making  a  blessing  of  the  ban  ; 

And  Freedom's  chemistry  combine 
The  alien  elements  of  man. 

The  power  that  broke  their  prison  bar 
And  set  the  dusky  millions  free, 

And  welded  in  the  flame  of  war 
The  Union  fast  to  Liberty, 

Shall  it  not  deal  with  other  ills, 
Redress    the    red    man's    grievance, 

break 
The    Circean  cup    which  shames  and 

kills, 
And  Labor  full  requital  make  ? 

Alone  to  such  as  fitly  bear 

Thy  civic  honors  bid  them  fall  ? 

And  call  thy  daughters  forth  to  share 
The  rights  and  duties  pledged  to  all  ? 

Give  every  child  his  right  of  school, 
Merge  private  greed  in  public  good, 

And  spare  a  treasury  overfull 
The  tax  upon  a  poor  man's  food  ? 

No  lack  was  in  thy  primal  stock, 
No  weakling  founders  builded  here  ; 

Thine  were  the  men  of  Plymouth  Rock, 
The  Huguenot  and  Cavalier ; 

And  they  whose  firm  endurance  gained 

The  freedom  of  the  souls  of  men, 
Whose   hands,    unstained    with    blood, 

maintained, 

The     swordless     commonwealth     of 
Penn. 

And  thine  shall  be  the  power  of  all 
To  do  the  work  which  duty  bids. 

And  make  the  people's  council  hall 
As  lasting  as  the  Pyramids  ! 


AN  AUTOGRAPH. 


449 


Well  have  thy  later  years  made  good 
Thy  brave-said  word  a  century  back, 

The  pledge  of  human  brotherhood, 
The  equal  claim  of  white  and  black. 

That  word  still  echoes  round  the  world, 
And  all  who  hear  it  turn  to  thee, 

And  read  upon  thy  flag  unfurled 
The  prophecies  of  destiny. 

Thy  great  world-lesson  all  shall  learn, 
The  nations  in  thy  school  shall  sit, 

Earth's    farthest    mountain  -  tops    shall 

burn 
With  watch-fires  from  thy  own  uplifc. 

Great  without  seeking  to  be  great 
By  fraud  or  conquest,  rich  in  gold, 

JBut  richer  in  the  large  estate 

Of  virtue  which  thy  children  hold, 

With  peace  that  comes  of  purity 
And  strength  to  simple  justice  due, 

So  runs  our  loyal  dream  of  thee  ; 
God  of  our  fathers  !  —  make  it  true. 

O  Land  of  lands  !  to  thee  we  give 
Our  prayers,  our  hopes,  our  service 
free ; 

For  thee  thy  sons  shall  nobly  live, 
And  at  thy  need  shall  die'for  thee  ! 


THE   "  STORY   OF  IDA." 

WEARY  of  jangling  noises  never  stilled, 
The  skeptic's  sneer,  the  bigot's  hate, 

the  din 
Of  clashing  texts,  the  webs  of  creed 

men  spin 
Round  simple  truth,  the  children  grown 

who  build 

With   gilded   cards    their  new   Jerusa 
lem, 

Busy,  with  sacerdotal  tailorings 
And   tinsel    gauds,    bedizening    holy 

things 
I  turn,  with  glad  and  grateful  heart, 

from  them 

To  the  sweet  story  of  the  Florentine 
Immortal  in   her   blameless   maiden 
hood, 
Beautiful    as   God's    angels  and    as 

good ; 

Feeling  that  life,  even  now,  may  be  di 
vine 


With  love  no  wrong  can  ever  change  to 
hate, 

No  sin  make  less  than  all-compassion 
ate ! 


AN  AUTOGRAPH. 

I  WRITE  my  name  as  one, 
On  sands  by  waves  o'errun 
Or  winter's  frosted  pane, 
Traces  a  record  vain. 

Oblivion's  blankness  claims 
Wiser  and  better  names, 
And  well  my  own  may  pass 
As  from  the  strand  or  glass. 

Wash  on,  0  waves  of  time ! 
Melt,  noons,  the  frosty  rime  ! 
Welcome  the  shadow  vast, 
The  silence  that  shall  last ! 

When  I  and  all  who  know 
And  love  me  vanish  so, 
What  harm  to  them  or  me 
Will  the  lost  memory  be  ? 

If  any  words  of  mine, 
Through  right  of  life  divine, 
Remain,  what  matters  it 
Whose  hand  the  message  writ  ? 

Why  should  the  "  crowner's  quest " 
Sit  on  my  worst  or  best  ? 
Why  should  the  showman  claim 
The  poor  ghost  of  my  name  ?• 

Yet,  as  when  dies  a  sound 
Its  spectre  lingers  round, 
Haply  my  spent  life  will 
Leave  some  faint  echo  still. 

A  whisper  giving  breath 
Of  praise  or  blame  to  death, 
Soothing  or  saddening  such 
As  loved  the  living  much. 

Therefore  with  yearnings  vain 
And  fond  I  still  would  fain 
A  kindly  judgment  seek, 
A  tender  thought  bespeak. 

And,  while  my  words  are  read, 
Let  this  at  least  be  said  : 
Whate'er  his  life's  defeatures, 
He  loved  his  fellow-creatures. 


450 


SAINT  GREGORY'S  GUEST. 


"  If,  of  the  Law's  stone  table, 
To  hold  he  scarce  was  able 
The  first  great  precept  fast, 
He  kept  for  man  the  last. 

"  Through  mortal  Inpse  and  dullness 
What  lacks  the  Eternal  Fullness, 
If  still  our  weakness  can 
Love  Him  in  loving  man  ? 

"  Age  brought  him  no  despairing 
Of  the  world's  future  faring  ; 
In  human  nature  still 
He  found  more  good  than  ill. 


"  To  all  who  dumbly  suffered, 
His  tongue  and  pen  he  offered  ; 
His  life  was  not  his  own, 
Nor  lived  for  self  alone. 

"  Hater  of  din  and  riot 
He  lived  in  days  unquiet ; 
And,  lover  of  all  beauty, 
Trod  the  hard  ways  of  duty. 

"  He  meant  no  wrong  to  any 
He  sought  the  good  of  many, 
Yet  knew  both  sin  and  folly,  — 
May  God  forgive  him  wholly  !  " 


SAINT  GREGORY'S  GUEST, 

AND  RECENT   POEMS. 


TO  GEN.  S.  C.  ARMSTRONG,  OF  HAMPTON,  VA., 

WHOSE   GENEROUS   AND    SELF-DENYING   LABORS    FOR  THE   ELEVATION   OF  TWO  RACES   HAVE 

ENLISTED   MY   SYMPATHIES   AND   CpMMANDED   MY   ADMIRATION, 

I  OFFER  THIS    VOLUME. 


SAINT  GREGORY'S  GUEST. 

A  TALE  for  Roman  guides  to  tell 
To  careless,  sight- worn  travellers  still, 

Who  pause  beside  the  narrow  cell 
Of  Gregory  on  the  Caslian  Hill. 

One  day  before  the  monk's  door  came 
A  beggar,  stretching  empty  palms, 

Fainting  and  fast-sick,  in  the  name 
Of  the  Most  Holy  asking  alms. 

And  the  monk  answered,  "  All  I  have 
In  this  poor  cell  of  mine  I  give, 

The  silver  cup  my  mother  gave  ; 
In  Christ's  name  take  thou  it,  and 
live." 

Years  passed  ;  and,  called  at  last  to  bear 
Pastoral  crook  and  keys  of  Koine, 

The  poor  monk,  in  Saint  Peter's  chair, 
Sat  the  crowned  lord  of  Christendom. 


"  Prepare    a    feast/'    Saint    Gregory 

cried, 

"  And  let  twelve  beggars  sit  thereat." 
The  beggars  came,  and  one  beside, 
An  unknown    stranger,  with    them 
sat. 

"  I  asked  thee  not,"  the  Pontiff  spake, 
"  O  stranger ;  but  if  need  be  thine, 

I  bid  thee  welcome,  for  the  sake 

Of  Him  who  is  thy  Lord  and  mine.'' 

A  grave,  calm  face  the  stranger  raised) 
Like  His  who  on  Gennesaret  trod, 

Or  His  on  whom  the  Chaldeans  gazed, 
Whose  form  was  as  the  Son  of  God. 

"  Know'st  thou,"  he  said,  "  thy  gift  of 
old  ?  " 

And  in  the  hand  he  lifted  up 
The  Pontiff  marvelled  to  behold 

Once  more  his  mother's  silver  cup. 


REVELATION. 


451 


"Thy  prayers  and  alms  have  risen,  and 
bloom 

Sweetly  among  the  flowers  of  heaven. 
I  am  The  Wonderful,  through  whom 

Whate'er  thou  askest  shall  be  given." 

He  spake  and  vanished.     Gregory  fell 
With  his  twelve  guests  in  mute  accord 

Prone  on  their  faces,  knowing  well 
Their  eyes  of  flesh  had  seen  the  Lord. 

The  old-time  legend  is  not  vain; 

Nor  vain  thy  art,  Verona's  Paul, 
Telling  it  o'er  and  o'er  again 

On  gray  Vicenza's  frescoed  wall. 

Still  wheresoever  pity  shares 

Its  bread  with  sorrow,  want,  and  sin, 
And  love  the  beggar's  feast  prepares, 

The  uninvited  Guest  comes  in. 

Unheard,  because  our  ears  are  dull, 
Unseen,  because  our  eyes  are  dim, 

He  walks  our  earth,  The  Wonderful, 
And  all  good  deeds  are  done  to  Him. 


REVELATION. 

"  And  I  went  into  the  "\fcle  of  Beavor,  and 
as  I  went  I  preached  repentance  to  the  peo 
ple.  And  one  morning,  sitting  by  the  fire,  a 
great  cloud  came  over  me,  and  a  temptation 
beset  me.  And  it  was  said  :  All  things  come 
by  Nature ;  and  the  Elements  and  the  Stars 
came  over  me.  And  as  I  sat  still  and  let  it 
alone,  a  living  hope  arose  in  me,  and  a  true 
Voice  which  said :  There  is  a  living  God  who 
made  all  things.  And  immediately  the  cloud 
and  the  temptation  vanished,  and  Life  rose 
over  all,  and  my  heart  was  glad  and  I  praised 
the  Living  God.''  —  Journal  of  George  Fox, 
1690. 

STILL  as  of  old,  in  Beavor's  Vale, 
O  man  of  God  !  our  hope  and  faith 

The  Elements  and  Stars  assail, 

And  the  awed  spirit  holds  its  breath, 
Blown  over  by  a  wind  of  death. 

Takes  Nature  thought  for  such  as  we, 
What  place  her  human  atom  fills, 

The  weed-drift  of  her  careless  sea, 
The  mist  on  her  unheeding  hills  ? 
What  recks  she  of  our  helpless  wills  ? 

Strange  god  of  Force,  with  fear,  not 

love, 

Its    trembling    worshipper  !       Can 
prayer 


Reach  the  shut  ear  of  Fate,  or  move 
Unpitying  Energy  to  spare  ? 
What  doth  the  cosmic  Vastuess  care  ? 

In  vain  to  this  dread  Unconcern 
For  the  All-Father's  love  we  look; 

In  vain,  in  quest  of  it,  we  turn 

The  storied  leaves  of  Nature's  book, 
The  prints  her  rocky  tablets  took. 

I  pray  for  faith,  I  long  to  trust ; 

I  listen  with  my  heart,  and  hear 
A  voice  without  a  sound  :  "  Be  just,| 

Be  true,  be  merciful,  revere 

The  Word  within  thee  :  God  is  near !  { 

"  A  light  to  sky  and  earth  unknown 
Pales   all  their   lights :    a  mightier 
force 

Than  theirs  the  powers  of  Nature  own, 
And,  to  its  goal  as  at  its  source 
His  Spirit  moves  the  Universe. 

"  Believe  and  trust.   Through  stars  and 

suns, 
Through  life  and  death,  through  soul 

and  sense, 

His  wise,  paternal  purpose  runs  ; 
The  darkness  of  His  providence 
Is  star-lit  with  benign  intents." 

0  joy  supreme  !     I  know  the  Voice, 
Like  none  beside  on  earth  or  sea  ; 

Yea,  more,  O  soul  of  mine,  rejoice, 
By  all  that  He  requires  of  me, 
I  know  what  God  himself  must  be. 

No  picture  to  my  aid  I  call, 

I  shape  no  image  in  my  prayer ; 

1  only  know  in  Him  is  all 

Of  life,  light,  beauty,  everywhere, 
Eternal  Goodness  here  and  there! 

I  know  He  is,  and  what  He  is, 

Whose  one  great  purpose  is  the  good 

Of  all.     I  rest  my  soul  on  His 
Immortal  Love  and  Fatherhood ; 
And    trust    Him,   as    His    children 
should. 

I  fear  no  more.    The  clouded  face 
Of  Nature  smiles ;  through  all  her 
things 

Of  time  and  space  and  sense  I  trace 
The  moving  of  the  Spirit's  wings, 
And  hear  the  song  of  hope  she  sings. 


452 


THE   WOOD    GIANT. 


ADJUSTMENT. 

THE  tree  of  Faith  its  bare,  dry  boughs 

must  shed 
That  nearer  heaven  the  living  ones 

may  climb ; 
The  false  must  fail,  though  from  our 

shores  of  time 
The   old   lament   be   heard,  — "  Great 

Pan  is  dead  !  " 
That  wail  is   Error's,  from   his   high 

place  hurled  ; 

This  sharp  recoil  is  Evil  undertrod  ; 
Our  time's  unrest,  an  angel  sent  of 

God 
Troubling  with  life  the  waters  of  the 

world. 
Even   as  they   list   the   winds  of   the 

Spirit  blow 
To  turn  or  break  our  century-rusted 

vanes ; 
Sands   shift    and   waste ;    the   rock 

alone  remains 
Where,  led  of  Heaven,  the  strong  tides 

come  and  go, 
And  storm-clouds,  rent  by  thunderbolt 

and  wind, 

Leave,  free  of  mist,  the  permanent  stars 
behind. 

Therefore  I  trust,  although  to  outward 

sense 
Both  true  and  false  seem  shaken ;  I 

will  hold 
With  newer  light  my  reverence  for 

the  old, 

And  calmly  wait  the  births  of  Provi 
dence. 
No  gain  is  lost ;  the  clear-eyed  saints 

look  down 
Untroubled  on  the  wreck  of  schemes 

and  creeds ; 
Love  yet  remains,  its  rosary  of  good 

deeds 
Counting  in  task-field  and  o'er  peopled 

town  ; 
Truth  has  charmed  life ;  the  Inward 

Word  survives, 
And,  day     by    day,  its    revelation 

brings; 
Faith,  hope,  and  charity,  whatsoever 

things 
Which  cannot  be  shaken,  stand.     Still 

holy  lives 
Reveal  the  Christ  of  whom  the  letter 

told, 
And  the  new  gospel  verifies  the  old. 


THE   WOOD   GIANT. 

FROM  Alton  Bay  to  Sandwich  Dome, 

From  Mad  to  Saco  river, 
For  patriarchs  of  the  primal  wood 

We  sought  with  vain  endeavor. 

And  then  we  said  :  "  The  giants  old 

Are  lost  beyond  retrieval ; 
This  pigmy  growth  the  axe  has  spared 

Is  not  the  wood  primeval. 

"  Look  where  we  will  o'er  vale  and  hill, 

How  idle  are  our  searches 
For  broad -girthed  maples,  wide-limbed 
oaks, 

Centennial  pines  and  birches  ! 

"  Their  tortured  limbs  the  axe  and 
saw 

Have  changed  to  beams  and  trestles ; 
They  rest  in  walls,  they  float  on  seas, 

They  rot  in  sunken  vessels. 

"  This  shorn  and  wasted  mountain  land 
Of  underbrush  and  boulder,  — 

Who  thinks  to  see  its  full-grown  tree 
Must  live  a  century  older." 

At  last  to  us  a  woodland  path, 

To  open  sunset  leading, 
Revealed  the  Anakim  of  pines 

Our  wildest  wish  exceeding. 

Alone,  the  level  sun  before  ; 

Below,  the  lake's  green  islands; 
Beyond,  in  misty  distance  dim, 

The  rugged  Northern  Highlands. 

Dark  Titan  on  his  Sunset  Hill 
Of  time  and  change  defiant ! 

How   dwarfed   the  common  woodland 

seemed, 
Before  the  old-time  giant ! 

What  marvel  that,  in  simpler  days 
Of  the  world's  early  childhood, 

Men  crowned  with  garlands,  gifts,  and 

praise 
Such  monarchs  of  the  wild-wood  ? 

That   Tyrian  maids  with  flower  and 

song 
Danced    through    the    hill    grove's 

spaces, 

And  hoary-bearded  Druids  found 
In  woods  their  holy  places  ? 


THE  HOMESTEAD. 


453 


With  somewhat  of  that  Pagan  awe 
With  Christian  reverence  blending, 

We  saw  our  pine-tree's  mighty  arms 
Above  our  heads  extending. 

We  heard  his  needles'  mystic  rune, 
Now  vising,  and  now  dying, 

A.S  erst  Dodona's  priestess  heard 
The  oak  leaves  prophesying. 

Was  it  the  half-unconscious  moan 

Of  one  apart  and  mateless, 
The  weariness  of  unshared  power, 

The  loneliness  of  greatness  ? 

O  dawns  and  sunsets,  lend  to  him 
Your  beauty  and  your  wonder ! 

Blithe  sparrow,  sing' thy  summer  song 
His  solemn  shadow  under  ! 

Play  lightly  on  his  slender  keys, 
O  wind  of  summer,  waking 

For  hills  like  these  the  sound  of  seas 
On  far-off  beaches  breaking  ! 

And  let  the  eagle  and  the  crow 
Find  shelter  in  his  branches, 

When   winds   shake  down  his  winter 

snow 
In  silver  avalanches. 

The  brave  are  braver  for  their  cheer, 
The  strongest  need  assurance, 

The  sigh  of  longing  makes  not  less 
The  lesson  of  endurance. 


THE    HOMESTEAD. 

AGAINST  the  wooded  hills  it  stands, 
Ghosts    of    a    dead    home,    staring 
through 

Its  broken  lights  on  wasted  lands 
Where  old-time  harvests  grew. 

Unploughed,   unsown,   by   scythe    un 
shorn, 

The  poor,  forsaken  farm-fields  lie, 
Once  rich  and  rife  with  golden  corn 

And  pale  green  breadths  of  rye. 

Of  healthful  herb  and  flower  bereft, 
The  garden  plot  no  housewife  keeps; 

Through  weeds  and  tangle  only  left, 
The  snake,  its  tenant,  creeps 


A  lilac  spray,  once  blossom-clad, 

Sways  bare  before  the  empty  rooms ; 

Beside  the  roofless  porch  a  sad 
Pathetic  red  rose  blooms. 

His  track,  in  mould  and  dust  of  drouth, 
On    floor    and    hearth  the  squirrel 
leaves, 

And  in  the  fireless  chimney's  mouth 
His  web  the  spider  weaves. 

The  leaning  barn,  about  to  fall, 

Resounds  no  more  on  husking  eves ; 

No  cattle  low  in  yard  or  stall, 
No  thresher  beats  his  sheaves. 

So  sad,  so  drear  !  It  seems  almost 
Some  haunting  Presence  makes  its 

sign; 
That   down  yon   shadowy  lane  some 

ghost 
Might  drive  his  spectral  kine  ! 

O  home  so  desolate  and  lorn ! 

Did    all    thy    memories    die    with 

thee  ? 
Were  any  wed,  were  any  born, 

Beneath  this  low  roof-tree  ? 

Whose  axe  the  wall  of  forest  broke, 
And     let     the      waiting     sunshine 
through  ? 

What  good-wife  sent  the  earliest  smoke 
Up  the  great  chimney  flue  ? 

Did  rustic  lovers  hither  come  ? 

Did  maidens,  swaying  back  and  forth 
In  rhythmic  grace,  at  wheel  and  loom, 

Make  light  their  toil  with  mirth  ? 

Did  child  feet  patter  on  the  stair  ? 

Did  boyhood  frolic  in  the  snow  ? 
Did  gray  age,  in  her  elbow  chair, 

Knit,  rocking  to  and  fro  ? 

The    murmuring    brook,   the  sighing 

breeze, 
The    pine's    slow    whisper,    cannot 

tell; 

Low  mounds  beneath  the  hemlock-trees 
Keep  the  home  secrets  well. 

Cease,  mother-land,  to  fondly  boast 
Of  sons  far  off  who  strive  and  thrive, 

Forgetful  that  each  swarming  host 
Must  leave  an  emptier  hive  ! 


454 


BIRCHBROOK   MILL. 


O  wanderers  from  ancestral  soil, 
Leave  noisome  mill   and   chaffering 
store  ; 

Gird  up  your  loins  for  sturdier  toil, 
And  build  the  home  once  more  ! 

Come  back  to  bayberry-scented  slopes, 
And  fragrant  "fern,  and  ground-mat 
vine  ; 

Breathe  airs  blown  over  holt  and  copse 
Sweet  with  black  birch  and  pine. 

What  matter  if  the  gains  are  small 
That  life's  essential  wants  supply  ? 

Your  homestead's  title  gives  you  all 
That  idle  wealth  can  buy. 

All  that  the  many-dollared  crave, 
The   brick-walled  slaves  of  Change 

and  mart, 
Lawns,  trees,  fresh  air,  and  flowers,  you 

have, 
More  dear  for  lack  of  art. 

Your  own  sole  masters,  freedom-willed, 
With  none  to  bid  you  go  or  stay, 

Till  the  old  fields  your  fathers  tilled, 
As  manly  men  as  they  ! 

With  skill   that  spares    your    toiling 
hands, 

And  chemic  aid  that  science  brings, 
Reclaim  the  waste  and  outworn  lands, 

And  reign  thereon  as  kings  ! 


BIRCHBROOK   MILL. 

A  NOTELESS   stream,  the   Birchbrook 
runs 

Beneath  its  leaning  trees ; 
That  low,  soft  ripple  is  its  own, 

That  dull  roar  is  the  sea's. 

Of  human  signs  it  sees  alone 
The  distant  church  spire's  tip, 

And,  ghost-like,  on  a  blank  of  gray, 
The  white  sail  of  a  ship. 

No  more  a  toiler  at  the  wheel, 

It  wanders  at  its  will ; 
Nor  dam  nor  pond  is  left  to  tell 

Where  once  was  Birchbrook  mill. 

The  timbers  of  that  mill  have  fed 
Long  since  a  farmer's  fires ; 


His    doorsteps    are    the    stories    that 

ground 
The  harvest  of  his  sires. 

Man  trespassed  here ;  but  Nature  lost 

No  right  of  her  domain  ; 
She  waited,  and  she  brought  the  old 

Wild  beauty  back  again. 

By  day  the  sunlight  through  the  leaves 
Falls  on  its  moist,  green  sod, 

And  wakes  the  violet  bloom  of  spring 
And  autumn's  golden  rod. 

Its  birches  whisper  to  the  wind, 
The  swallow  dips  her  wings 

In  the  cool  spray,  and  on  its  banks 
The  gray  song-sparrow  sings. 

But  from  it,  when  the  dark  night  falls, 
The  school-girl  shrinks  with  dread  ; 

The     farmer,    home-bound    from    hii» 

fields, 
Goes  by  with  quickened  tread. 

They  dare  not  pause  to  hear  the  grind 
Of  shadowy  stone  on  stone  ; 

The  plashing  of  a  water-wheel 
Where  wheel  there  now  is  none. 

Has  not  a  cry  of  pain  been  heard 

Above  the  clattering  mill  ? 
The  pawiug  of  an  unseen  horse, 

Who  waits  his  mistress  still  ? 

Yet  never  to  the  listener's  eye 
Has  sight  confirmed  the  sound ; 

A  wavering  birch  line  marks  alone 
The  vacant  pasture  ground. 

No  ghostly  arms  fling  up  to  heaven 

The  agony  of  prayer  ; 
No  spectral  steed  impatient  shakes 

His  white  mane  on  the  air. 

The  meaning  of  that  common  dread 

No  tongue  has  fitly  told ; 
The  secret  of  the  dark  surmise 

The  brook  and  birches  hold. 

What  nameless  horror  of  the  past 

Broods  here  forever  more  ? 
What  ghost  his  unforgiven  sin 

Is  grinding  o'er  and  o'er  ? 

Does,  then,  immortal  memory  play 
The  actor's  tragic  part, 


SWEET    FERN. 


455 


Rehearsals  of  a  mortal  life 
Arid  unveiled  human  heart  ? 

God's  pity  spare  a  guilty  soul 

That  drama  of  its  ill, 
And  let  the  scenic  curtain  fall 

On  Birchbrook's  haunted  mill ! 


HOW  THE  ROBIN   CAME. 


AN    ALGONQUIN    LEGEND. 

HAPPY  young  friends,  sit  by  me, 
Under  May's  blown  apple-tree, 
While  these  home-birds  in  and  out 
Through  the  blossoms  flit  about. 
Hear  a  story,  strange  and  old, 
By  the  wild  red  Indians  told, 
How  the  robin  came  to  be  : 

Once  a  great  chief  left  his  son,  — 
Well-beloved,  his  only  one,  — 
When  the  boy  was  well-nigh  grown, 
In  the  trial-lodge  alone. 
Left  for  tortures  long  and  slow 
Youths  like  him  must  undergo, 
Who  their  pride  of  manhood  test, 
Lacking  water,  food,  and  rest. 
Seven  days  the  fast  he  kept, 
Seven  nights  he  never  slept. 
Then  the  young  boy,  wrung  with  pain, 
Weak  from  nature's  overstrain, 
Faltering,  moaned  a  low  complaint: 
"  Spare  me,  father,  for  I  faint  !  " 
But  the  chieftain,  haughty-eyed, 
Hid  his  pity  in  his  pride. 
"  You  shall  be  a  hunter  good, 
Knowing  never  lack  of  food  ; 
You  shall  be  a  warrior  great, 
Wise  as  fox  and  strong  as  bear; 
Many  scalps  ycur  belt  shall  wear, 
If  with  patient  heart  you  wait 
Bravely  till  your  task  is  done. 
Better  you  should  starving  die 
Than  that  boy  and  squaw  should  cry 
Shame  upon  your  father's  son  !  " 

When  next  morn  the  sun's  first  rays 
Glistened  on  the  hemlock  sprays, 
Straight  that  lodge  the  old  chief  sought, 
And    boiled    samp    and    moose   meat 

brought. 

"  Rise  and  eat,  my  son  !  "  he  said. 
Lo,  he  found  the  poor  boy  dead  ! 


As  with  grief  his  grave  they  made, 
And  his  bow  beside  him  laid, 
Pipe,  and  knife,  and  wampum-braid, 
On  the  lodge-top  overhead, 
Preening  smooth  its  breast  of  red 
And  the  brown  coat  that  it  wore, 
Sat  a  bird,  unknown  before. 
And  as  if  with  human  tongue, 
"  Mourn  me  not,"  it  said,  or  sung; 
"  I,  a  bird,  am  still  your  son, 
Happier  than  if  hunter  fleet, 
Or  a  brave,  before  your  feet 
Laying  scalps  in  battle  won. 
Friend  of  man,  my  song  shall  cheer 
Lodge  and  corn-laud  ;  hovering  near, 
To  each  wigwam  I  shall  bring 
Tidings  of  the  coming  spring ; 
Every  child  my  voice  shall  know 
In  the  moon  of  melting  snow, 
When  the  maple's  red  bud  swells, 
And  the  wind-flower  lifts  its  bells. 
As  their  fond  companion 
Men  shall  henceforth  own  your  son, 
And  my  song  shall  testify 
That  of  human  kin  am  I." 

Thus  the  Indian  legend  saith 
How,  at  first,  the  robin  came 
With  a  sweeter  life  from  death, 
Bird  for  boy,  and  still  the  same. 
If  my  young  friends  doubt  that  this 
Is  the  robin's  genesis, 
Not  in  vain  is  still  the  myth 
If  a  truth  be  found  therewith  : 
Unto  gentleness  belong 
Gifts  unknown  to  pride  and  wrong  ; 
Happier  far  than  hate  is  praise,  — 
He  who  sings  than  he  who  slays. 


SWEET   FERN. 

THE  subtle  power  in  perfume  found 
Nor  priest  nor  sibyl  vainly  learned : 

On  Grecian  shrine  or  Aztec  mound 
No  censer  idly  burned. 

That  power  the  old-time  worships  knew, 
The  Corybantes'  frenzied  dance, 

The  Pythian  priestess  swooning  through 
The  wonderland  of  trance. 

And  Nature  holds,  in  wood  and  field, 
Her  thousand  sunlit  censers  still  ; 

To  spells  of  flower  and  shrub  we  yield 
Against  or  with  our  will. 


456 


BANISHED   FROM   MASSACHUSETTS. 


I  climbed  a  hill  path  strange  and  new 
With  slow  feet,  pausing  at  each  turn ; 

A  sudden  waft  of  west  wind  blew 
The  breath  of  the  sweet  fern. 

That  fragrance  from  my  vision  swept 
The  alien  landscape  ;  in  its  stead, 

Up  fairer  hills  of  youth  I  stepped, 
As  light  of  heart  as  tread. 

I  saw  my  boyhood's  lakelet  shine 
Once  more  through  rifts  of  woodland 
shade ; 

I  knew  my  river's  winding  line 
By  morning  mist  betrayed. 

With    me    June's    freshness,    lapsing 
brook, 

Murmurs  of  leaf  and  bee,  the  call 
Of  birds,  and  one  in  voice  and  look 

In  keeping  with  them  all. 

A  fern  beside  the  way  we  went 

She  plucked,  and,  smiling,  held  it  up, 

While  from  her  hand  the  wild,  sweet 

scent 
I  drank  as  from  a  cup. 

O  potent  witchery  of  smell ! 

The  dust- dry-leaves  to  life  return, 
And  she  who  plucked  them  owns  the 
spell 

And  lifts  her  ghostly  fern. 

Or  sense  or  spirit  ?     Who  shall  say 
What   touch   the   chord  of  memory 
thrills  ? 

It  passed,  and  left  the  August  day 
Ablaze  on  lonely  hills. 


BANISHED    FROM    MASSACHU 
SETTS. 

1660. 

ON   A   PAINTING   BY  E.  A.  ABBEY. 

OVER   the   threshold  of  his  pleasant 

home 

Set  in  green  clearings  passed  the  ex 
iled  Friend, 
In  simple  trust,  misdoubting  not  the 

end. 

"  Dear  heart  of  mine !  "  he  said,  "  the 
time  has  come 


To  trust  the  Lord  for  shelter."     One 

long  gaze 

The  good  wife  turned  on  each  famil 
iar  thing, — 

The  lowing  kine,  the  orchard   blos 
soming, 

The  open  door  that  showed  the  hearth- 
fire's  blaze, — 
And   calmly  answered,  "  Yes,  He  will 

provide." 
Silent    and    slow    they  crossed    the 

homestead's  bound, 
Lingering  the  longest  by  their  child's 

grave-mound. 
"  Move  on,  or   stay  and   hang !  "    the 

sheriff  cried. 
They  left  behind  them  more  than  home 

or  land, 
And  set  sad  faces  to  an  alien  strand. 

Safer  with  winds  and  waves  than  hu 
man  wrath, 
With    ravening   wolves   than    those 

whose  zeal  for  God 
Was  cruelty  to  man,  the  exiles  trod 
Drear  leagues  of  forest  without  guide 

or  path, 

Or  launching  frail  boats  on  the  un 
charted  sea, 
Round    storm-vexed    capes,    whose 

teeth  of  granite  ground 
The   waves   to   foam,  their  perilous 

way  they  wound, 
Enduring  all  things  so  their  souls  were 

free. 
Oh,  true  confessors,  shaming  them  who 

did 

Anew  the  wrong  their  Pilgrim  Fa 
thers  bore  ! 
For  you  the  Mayflower  spread  her 

sail  once  more, 

Freighted  with  souls,  to  all  that  duty  bid 
Faithful   as   they  who   sought  an  un 
known  land, 

O'er  wintry  seas,  from  Holland's  Hook 
of  Sand ! 

So  from  his  lost  home  to  the  darkening 

main, 
Bodeful  of  storm,  stout  Macey  held 

his  way, 
And,  when  the  green  shore  blended 

with  the  gray, 
His  poor  wife  moaned :  "  Let  us  turn 

back  again." 
"Nay,   woman,   weak  of  faith,  kneel 

down,"  said  he, 


THE   TWO   ELIZABETHS. 


457 


"  And   say  thy   prayers  :    the   Lord 

himself  will  steer  ; 
And  led  by  Him,  nor  man  nor  devils 

I  fear  !  " *5 
3o  the  gray  Southwicks,  from  a  rainy 

sea, 
Saw,  far  and  faint,  the  loom  of  land, 

and  gave 

With  feeble  voices  thanks  for  friend 
ly  ground 
Whereon  to  rest  their  weary  feet,  and 

found 

A  peaceful  death-bed  and  a  quiet  grave 
Where,  ocean-walled,  and    wiser  than 

his  age, 

The  lord  of  Shelter  scorned  the  bigot's 
rage. 

Aquidneck's    isle,  Nantucket's   lonely 

shores, 
And     Indian-haunted   Narragansett 

saw 
The  way-worn  travellers  round  their 

camp-fire  draw, 
Or  heard  the  plashing  of  their  weary 

oars. 
And  every  place  whereon  they  rested 

grew 

Happier  for  pure  and  gracious  wom 
anhood, 
And  men  whose  names  for  stainless 

honor  stood, 
Founders  of  States  and  rulers  wise  and 

true. 
The  Muse  of  history  yet  shall  make 

amends 
To  those   who  freedom,  peace,  and 

justice  taught, 
Beyond  their  dark  age  led  the  van  of 

thought, 
And    left    unforfeited    the    name    of 

Friends. 
Oh  mother  State,  how  foiled  was  thy 

design  ! 

The  gain  was  theirs,  the  loss  alone  was 
thine. 


THE  TWO  ELIZABETHS. 

Read  at  the  unveiling  of  the  bust  of  Eliza 
beth  Fry  at  the  Friends:  School,  Providence, 
R.  I. 

A.   D.    1209. 

AMIDST  Thuringia's  wooded  hills  she 
dwelt, 


A  high-born  princess,  servant  of  the 

poor, 
Sweetening  with  gracious  words  the 

food  she  dealt 
To   starving  throngs  at  Wartburg's 

blazoned  door. 

A  blinded  zealot  held  her  soul  in  chains, 
Cramped  the  sweet  nature  that  he 

could  not  kill, 

Scarred  her  fair  body  with  his  penance- 
pains, 

And   gauged  her  conscience  by  his 
narrow  will. 

Gocl   gave  her  gifts  of  beauty  and  of 

grace, 
With  fast  and  vigil  she  denied  them 

all; 

Unquestioning,  with  sad,  pathetic  face, 
She  followed  meekly  at   her  stern 
guide's  call. 

So  drooped  and  died  her  home-blown 

rose  of  bliss 

In  the  chill  rigor  of  a  discipline 
That   turned   her   fond  lips   from   her 

children's  kiss, 

And  made  her  joy  of  motherhood  a 
sin. 

To    their    sad    level    by    compassion 

led, 
One  with  the  low  and  vile  herself  she 

made, 
While    thankless   misery   mocked    the 

hand  that  fed, 

And  laughed  to  scorn  her  piteous 
masquerade. 

But  still,  with  patience  that  outwearied 

hate 
She  gave  her  all  while  yet  she  had  to 

give; 

And  then  her  empty  hands,  importu 
nate, 

In   prayer   she   lifted  that  the  poor 
might  live. 

Sore  pressed  by  grief,  and  wrongs  more 

hard  to  bear, 
And  dwarfed  and  stifled  by  a  harsh 

control, 
She  kept  life  fragrant  with  good  deeds 

and  prayer, 

And  fresh  and  pure  the  white  flower 
of  her  soul. 


458 


THE   TWO  ELIZABETHS. 


Death  found  her  busy  at  her  task :  one 

word 
Alone  she  uttered  as  she  paused  to 

die, 
"  Silence  !  "  —  then    listened   even  as 

one  who  heard 

With  song  and  wing  the  angels  draw 
ing  nigh ! 

Now  Fra  Angelico's  roses  fill  her  hands, 
And,  on  Murillo's  canvas,  Want  and 

Pain 
Kneel  at  her  feet.     Her  marble  image 

stands 

Worshipped  and   crowned   in   Mar 
burg's  holy  fane. 

Yea,  wheresoe'er  her  Church  its  cross 

up  rears, 
Wide  as  the  world  her  story  still  is 

told; 

In  manhood's  reverence,  woman's  pray 
ers  and  tears 

She  lives  again  whose  grave  is  cen 
turies  old. 

And  still,  despite  the  weakness  or  the 

blame 
Of  blind  submission  to  the  blind,  she 

hath 

A  tender  place  in  hearts  of  every  name, 
And   more   than   Rome  owns  Saint 
Elizabeth  ! 


A.  D.  1780. 

Slow    ages   passed :   and  lo !   another 

came, 
An  English  matron,  in  whose  simple 

faith 

Nor  priestly  rule  nor  ritual  had  claim, 
A  plain,  uncanonized  Elizabeth. 

No  sackcloth  robe,  nor  ashen-sprinkled 

hair, 
Nor  wasting  fast,  nor  scourge,  nor 

vigil  long, 
Marred   her  calm  presence.     God  had 

made  her  fair, 

And  she  could  do  His  goodly  work 
no  wrong. 

Their  yoke   is  easy  and  their  burden 

light 

Whose  sole  confessor  is  the  Christ  of 
God; 


Her  quiet  trust  and  faith  transcending 

sight 

Smoothed   to   her  feet  the  difficult 
paths  she  trod. 

And  there  she  walked,  as  duty  bade  her 

go, 
Safe   and    unsullied  as  a  cloistered 

nun, 
Shamed   with  her  plainness  Fashion's 

gaudy  show. 
And  overcame  the  world  she  did  not 

shun. 

In  Earlham's  bowers,  in  Plashet's  lib 
eral  hall, 
In  the  great  city's  restless  crowd  and 

din, 

Her  ear  was  open  to  the  Master's  call, 
And  knew  the  summons  of  His  voice 
within. 

Tender  as  mother,  beautiful  as  wife, 
Amidst  the  throngs  of  prisoned  crime 

she  stood, 

In  modest  raiment  faultless  as  her  life, 
The    type    of    England's   worthiest 
womanhood ! 

To    melt   the    hearts    that  harshness 

turned  to  stone 

The  sweet  persuasion  of  her  lips  suf 
ficed, 
And  guilt,  which  only  hate  and  fear  had 

known, 

Saw  in  her  own  the  pitying  love  of 
Christ. 

So  wheresoe'er  the  guiding  Spirit  went 
She  followed,  finding  every  prison  cell 

It  opened  for  her  sacred  as  a  tent 
Pitched  by  Gennesaret  or  by  Jacob's 
well. 

And  Pride  and  Fashion  felt  her  strong 

appeal, 
And  priest  and  ruler  marvelled   as 

they  saw 
How  hand  in  hand  went  wisdom  with 

her  zeal, 

And  woman's  pity  kept  the  bounds 
of  law. 

She  rests  in  God's  peace;  but  her  mem 
ory  stirs 

The  air  of  earth  as  with  an  angel's 
wings, 


REQUITAL. 


459 


And  warms  and  moves  the  hearts  of 

men  like  hers, 

The  sainted  daughter  of  Hungarian 
kings. 

United  now,  the  Briton  and  the  Hun, 
Each,  in  her  own  time,  faithful  unto 

death, 
Live   sister  souls !  in  name  and  spirit 

one, 
Thuringia's  saint  and  our  Elizabeth  ! 


THE  EEUNION. 

Read  September  10,  1885,  to  the  surviving 
students  of  Haverhill  Academy  in  1827-28. 

THE  gulf  of  seven  and  fifty  years 
We    stretch  our  welcoming  hands 

across  ; 
The  distance  but  a  pebble's  toss 

Between  us  and  our  youth  appears. 

For  in  life's  school  we  linger  on 
The  remnant  of  a  once  full  list; 
Conning  our  lessons,  undismissed, 

With  faces  to  the  setting  sun. 

And    some   have  gone   the  unknown 
way, 

And  some  await  the  call  to  rest ; 

Who  knoweth  whether  it  is  best 
For  those  who  went  or  those  who  stay  ? 

And  yet  despite  of  loss  and  ill, 
If  faith  and  love  and  hope  remain, 
Our  length  of  days  is  not  in  vain, 

And  life  is  well  worth  living  still. 

Still  to  a  gracious  Providence 
The  thanks  of  grateful   hearts  are 

due, 
For  blessings  when  our  lives  were 

new, 
For  all  the  good  vouchsafed  us  since. 

The  pain  that  spared  us  sorer  hurt, 
The  wish  denied,  the  purpose  crossed, 
And  pleasure's  fond  occasions  lost, 

Were  mercies  to  our  small  desert. 

'T  is  something  that  we  wander  back, 
Gray  pilgrims,  to  our  ancient  ways, 
And  tender  memories  of  old  days 

Walk  with  us  by  the  Merrimac ; 


That  even  in  life's  afternoon 

A  sense  of  youth  comes  back  again, 
As  through  this  cool  September  rain 

The  still  green  woodlands  dream   of 
June. 

The  eyes  grown  dim  to  present  things 
Have  keener  sight  for  by-gone  years, 
And   sweet  and   clear,  in   deafening 
ears, 

The  bird  that  sang  at  morning  sings. 

Dear  comrades,  scattered  wide  and  far, 
Send  from  their  homes  their  kindly 

word, 
And  dearer  ones,  unseen,  unheard, 

Smile  on  us  from  some  heavenly  star. 

For  life  and  death  with  God  are  one, 
Unchanged  by  seeming  change  His 

care 
And    love  are  round   us  here   and 

there ; 

He  breaks  no  thread    His  hand   has 
spun. 

Soul  touches  soul,  the  muster  roll 
Of  life  eternal  has  no  gaps  ; 
And  after  half  a  century's  lapse 

Our  school-day  ranks  are  closed  and 
whole. 

Hail  and  farewell !     We  go  our  way  ; 

Where   shadows   end,   we    trust    in 
light ; 

The  star  that  ushers  in  the  night 
Is  herald  also  of  the  day ! 


REQUITAL. 

As  Islam's  Prophet,  when  his  last  day 

drew 
Nigh  to  its  close,  besought  all  men  to 

say 
Whom  he  had  wronged,  to  whom  he 

then  should  pay 

A  debt  forgotten,  or  for  pardon  sue, 
And,  through  the  silence  of  his  weeping 

friends, 
A  strange  voice  cried  :  "  Thou  owest 

me  a  debt," 
"  Allah  be  praised !  "   he    answered. 

"  Even  yet 

He  gives  me  power  to  make  to  thee 
amends. 


460 


MULFORD. 


Oh,  friend  !  I  thank  thec  for  thy  timely 

word." 
So  runs  the  tale.     Its  lesson  all  may 

heed, 
For  all  have  sinned  in   thought,  or 

word,  or  deed, 
Or,  like  the  Prophet,  through  neglect 

have  erred. 
All  need  forgiveness,  all  have  debts  to 

pay 
Ere  the  night  cometh,  while  it  still  is 


THE   LIGHT  THAT  IS  FELT. 

A  TENDER  child  of  summers  three, 

Seeking  her  little  bed  at  night, 
Paused  on  the  dark  stair  timidly. 
"  Oh,  mother !  Take  my  hand,"  said 

she, 

"And    then    the   dark   will  all    be 
light." 

We  older  children  grope  our  way 

From  dark  behind  to  dark  before ; 
And  only  when  our  hands  we  lay, 
Dear  Lord,  in  Thine,  the  night  is  day, 
And  there  is  darkness  nevermore. " 

I? each  downward  to  the  sunless  days 
Wherein  our  guides  are  blind  as  we, 

And  faith  is  small  and  hope  delays  ; 

Take  Thou   the  hands  of  prayer  we 

raise, 
And  let  us  feel  the  light  of  Thee  ! 


THE    TWO  LOVES. 

SMOOTHING  soft  the  nestling  head 

Of  a  maiden  fancy -led, 

Thus  a  grave-eyed  woman  said  : 

'"  Richest  gifts  are  those  we  make, 
Dearer  than  the  love  we  take 
That  we  give  for  love's  own  sake.\ 

"  Well  I  know  the  heart's  unrest ; 
Mine  has  been  the  common  quest 
To  be  loved  and  therefore  blest. 

"  Favors  undeserved  were  mine  ; 
At  my  feet  as  on  a  shrine 
Love  has  laid  its  gifts  divine. 


"  Sweet  the  offerings  seemed,  and  yet 
With  their  sweetness  came  regret, 
And  a  sense  of  unpaid  debt. 

"  Heart  of  mine  unsatisfied, 
Was  it  vanity  or  pride 
That  a  deeper  joy  denied? 

\"  Hands  that  ope  but  to  receive 
Empty  close; (they  only  live 
Richly  who  can  richly  give. } 

"  Still,"  she  sighed,   with  moistening 

I«T  e'yeS' 

1    Love  is  sweet  in  any  guise ; 
But  its  best  is  sacrifice  !  I 

I"  He  who,  giving,  does  not  crave 
Likest  is  to  Him  who  gave 
Life  itself  the  loved  to  save.  1 

"  Love,  that  self-forgetful  gives, 
Sows  surprise  of  ripened  sheaves, 
Late  or  soon  its  own  receives.'! 


AN   EASTER   FLOWER  GIFT. 

O  DEAREST  bloom  the  seasons  know, 
Flowers  of  the  Resurrection  blow, 

Our  hope  and  faith  restore  ; 
And  through  the  bitterness  of  death 
And  loss  and  sorrow,  breathe  a  breath 

Of  life  forevermore ! 

The  thought  of  Love  Immortal  blends 
With  fond  remembrances  of  friends ; 

In  you,  O  sacred  flowers, 
By  human  love  made  doubly  sweet, 
The  heavenly  and  the  earthly  meet, 

The  heart  of  Christ  and  ours  ! 


MULFORD. 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  NATION  "  AND  "  THE 
REPUBLIC  OF  GOD." 

UNNOTED  as  the  setting  of  a  star 
He    passed ;  and    sect    and     party 

scarcely  knew 
When  from  their  midst  a  sage  and 

seer  withdrew 
To   fitter  audience,   where    the   great 

dead  are 

In  God's  republic  of  the  heart  and  mind, 
Leaving  no  purer,  nobler  soul  behind. 


HYMNS  OF   THE  BRAHMO   SOMAJ. 


461 


AN  ARTIST   OF    THE    BEAUTI 
FUL. 

G.  F. 

HAUNTED  of  Beauty,  like  the  marvel 
lous  youth 

Who  sang  Saint  Agnes'  Eve !  How 
passing  fair 

Her  shapes  took  color  in  thy  home 
stead  air ! 

How  on  thy  canvas  even  her  dreams 
were  truth ! 

Magician  !  who  from  commonest  ele 
ments 

Called  up  divine  ideals,  clothed  upon 

By  mystic  lights  soft  blending  into 
one 

Womanly  grace  and  child-like  inno 
cence. 

Teacher  !  thy  lesson  was  not  given  in 
vain. 

Beauty  is  goodness ;  ugliness  is  sin  ; 

Art's  place  is  sacred :  nothing  foul 
therein 

May  crawl  or  tread  with  bestial  feet 
profane. 

If  rightly  choosing  is  the  painter's  test, 

Thy  choice,  O   master,  ever  was  the 


HYMNS  OF   THE  BRAHMO 
SOMAJ.86 


THE  mercy,  O  Eternal  One  ! 

By  man  unmeasured  yet, 
In  joy  or  gri^f,  in  shade  or  sun, 

I  never  will  forget. 
I  give  the  whole,  and  not  a  part, 

Of  all  Thou  gavest  me ; 


My  goods,  my  life,  my  soul  and  hoart, 
I  yield  them  all  to  Thee  ! 


ii. 


We  fast  and  plead,  we  weep  and  pray, 

From  morning  until  even  ; 
We  feel  to  find  the  holy  way, 

We  knock  at  the  gate  of  heaven  ! 
And  when  in  silent  awe  we  wait, 

And  word  and  sign  forbear, 
The  hinges  of  the  golden  gate 

Move,  soundless,  to  our  prayer  ! 
Who  hears  the  eternal  harmonies 

Can  heed  no  outward  word ; 
Blind  to  all  else  is  he  who  sees 

The  vision  of  the  Lord  ! 


0  soul,  be  patient,  restrain  thy  tears, 

Have  hope,  and  not  despair ; 
As  a  tender  mother  heareth  her  child 

God  hears  the  penitent  prayer. 
And  not  forever  shall  yrief  be  thine  ; 

On  the  Heavenly  Mother's  breast, 
Washed  clean  and  white  in  the  waters 
of  Joy 

Shall  His  seeking  child  find  rest. 
Console  thyself  with  His  word  of  grace, 

And  cease  thy  wail  of  woe, 
For  His  mercy  never  an  equal  hath, 

And  His  love  no  bounds  can  know. 
Lean  close  unto  Him  in  faith  and  hope  ; 

How  many  like  thee  have  found 
In  Him  a  shelter  and  home  of  peace, 

By  His  mercy  compassed  round  ! 
There,  safe  from  sin  and  the  sorrow  it 
brings, 

They  sing  their  grateful  psalms, 
And  rest,  at  noon,  by  the  wells  of  God, 

In  the  shade  of  His  holy  palms ! 


NOTES, 


.a  err.  1,  page  1. 

GO  MEGO.CTE,  or  Hegone,  was  a  leader 
among  the  Saco  Indians,  in  the  bloody  war 
Cf  36/7.  tie  attacked  and  captured  the 
garrison  at  Black  Point,  October  12th  of 
that  year  ;  and  cut  off,  at  the  same  time,  a 
party  of  Englishmen  near  Saco  River. 
From  a  deed  signed  by  this  Indian  in  1664, 
and  from  other  circumstances,  it  seems 
that,  previous  to  the  war,  he  had  mingled 
much  with  the  colonists.  On  this  account, 
he  was  probably  selected  by  the  principal 
sachems  as  their  agent  in  the  treaty  signed 
in  November,  1676. 

NOTE  2,  page  1. 

Baron  de  St.  Castine  came  to  Canada  in 
1644.  Leaving  his  civilized  companions, 
he  plunged  into  the  great  wilderness  and 
settled  among  the  Penobscot  Indians,  near 
the  mouth  of  their  noble  river.  He  here 
took  for  his  wives  the  daughters  of  the 
great  Modocawando,  —  the  most  powerful 
Bachem  of  the  East.  His  castle  was  plun 
dered  by  Governor  Andros,  during  his 
reckless  administration  ;  and  the  enraged 
Baron  is  supposed  to  have  excited  the  In 
dians  into  open  hostility  to  the  English. 

NOTE  3,  page  2. 

The  owner  and  commander  of  the  garrison 
at  Black  Point,  Avhich  Mogg  attacked  and 
plundered.  He  was  an  old  man  at  the 
period  to  which  the  tale  relates. 

NOTE  4,  page  2. 

Major  Phillips,  one  of  the  principal  men 
if  the  Colony.  His  garrison  sustained  a 
long  and  terrible  siege  by  the  savages.  As 
a  magistrate  and  a  gentleman,  he  exacted 
of  his  plebeian  neighbors  a  remarkable  de 
gree  of  deference.  The  Court  Records  of 
the  settlement  inform  us  that  an  individual 
was  fined  for  the  heinous  offtmce  of  saying 
that  "  Major  Phillips's  mare  was  Cis  lean  as 
in  Indian  dog." 


NOTE  5,  page  2, 

Captain  Harmon,  ef  Georgeana,  now 
York,  was,  for  many  years,  the  terror  of  the 
Eastern  Indians.  In  one  of  his  expeditions 
up  the  Kennebec  River,  at  the  head  of  <? 
party  of  rangers,  he  discovered  twenty  of 
the  savages  asleep  by  a  large  fire.  Cau 
tiously  creeping  towards  them  until  he 
was  certain  of  his  aim,  he  ordered  his  men 
to  single  out  their  objects.  The  first  dis 
charge  killed  or  mortally  wounded  the 
whole  number  of  the  unconscious  sleepers. 

NOTE  6,  page  2. 

Wood  Island,  near  the  mouth  of  the 
Saco.  It  was  visited  by  the  Sicur  de 
Monts  and  Champlain,  in  1603.  The  fol 
lowing  extract,  from  the  journal  of  the 
latter,  relates  to  it  :  "  Having  left  the 
Kennebec,  we  ran  along  the  coast  to  the 
westward,  and  cast  anchor  under  a  small 
island,  near  the  mainland,  where  we  saw 
twenty  or  more  natives.  I  here  visited  an 
island,  beautifully  clothed  with  a  fine 
growth  of  forest  trees,  particularly  of  the 
oak  and  walnut  ;  and  overspread  with 
vines,  that,  in  their  season,  produce  excel 
lent  grapes.  We  named  it  the  island  ot 
Bacchus." — Les  Voyages  de  Sieur  Cham- 
plain,  Liv.  2,  c.  8. 

NOTE  7,  page  2. 

John  Bonython  was  the  son  of  Richard 
Bonython,  Gent.,  one  of  the  most  efficient 
and  able  magistrates  of  the  Colony.  John 
proved  to  be  "a  degenerate  plant'  In 
1635,  we  find,  by  the  Court  Records,  that, 
for  some  offence,  he  was  fined  40s.  In 
1640,  he  was  fined  for  abuse  toward  R. 
Gibson,  the  minister,  and  Mary  his  wife. 
Soon  after  he  was  fined  for  disorderly  con 
duct  in  the  house  of  his  father.  In  1645, 
the  "  Great  and  General  Court"  adjudged 
John  Bonyf  lion  outlawed,  and  incapable  of 
any  of  hi.?  Majesty's  laws,  and  proclaimed 
hue  a  rebel."  (Court  Records  of  the  Prov- 


464 


NOTES. 


ince,  1645.)     Tn  1651,  he  bade  defiance  to  I  NOTE  10,  page  4 

the  laws  of  Massachusetts,  ,nnd  was  again  |      «  rm^  ,     .,      }     „  R  lRT, 

that  even  the  Indian  women  never  cry  as 


present  generation  in  the  following  epi- 
tiph  :  — 

•  Here  lies  Bonython  ;  the  Sagamore  of  Saco, 
lie  lived  a  rogue,  and  died  a  knave,  and  went 
to  Hobomoko." 

By  some  means  or  other,  he  obtained  a 
(urge  estate.  In  this  poem.  I  have  taken 
some  liberties  with  him,  not  strictly  war 
ranted  by  historical  facts,  although  the 
conduct  imputed  to  him  is  in  keeping  with 
his  general  character.  Over  the  last  years 
of  his  life  lingers  a  deep  obscurity.  Even 
the  manner  of  his  death  is  uncertain.  He 
was  supposed  to  have  been  killed  by  the 
Indians  ;  but  this  is  doubted  by  the  able 
tad  indefatigable  author  of  the  History 
of  Saco  and  Biddeford.  —  Part  I.  p.  115. 

NOTE  8,  page  2. 

Foxwell's  Brook  flows  from  a  marsh  or 
bog,  called  the  "  Heath,"  in  Saco,  contain 
ing  thirteen  hundred  acres.  On  this  brook, 
and  surrounded  by  wild  and  romantic 
scenery,  is  a  beautiful  waterfall,  of  more 
than  sixty  feet. 

NOTE  9,  page  3. 

Hiacoomes,  the  first  Christian  preacher 
on  Martha's  Vineyard  ;  for  a  biography  of 
whom  the  reader  is  referred  to  Increase 
Mayhew's  account  of  the  Praying  Indians, 
1726.  The  following  is  related  of  him  : 
"  One  Lord's  day,  after  meeting,  where 
Hiacoomes  had  been  preaching,  there  came 
in  a  Powwaw  very  angry,  and  said,  '  I  know 
all  the  meeting  Indians  are  liars.  You  say 
you  don't  care  for  the  Powwaws ' ;  —  then 
calling  two  or  three  of  them  by  name,  he 
railed  at  them,  and  told  them  they  were 
deceived,  for  the  Powwaws  could  kill  all 
the  meeting  Indians,  if  they  set  about  it. 
But  Hiacoomes  told  him  that  he  would  be 
In  the  midst  of  all  the  Powwaws  in  the 
island,  and  they  should  do  the  utmost  they 
could  against  him  ;  and  when  they  should 
do  their  worst  by  their  witchcraft  to  kill 
him,  he  would  without  fear  set  himself 
against  them,  by  remembering  Jehovah. 
He  told  them  also  he  did  put  all  the  Pow 
waws  under  his  heel.  Such  was  the  faith 
of  this  good  man.  Nor  were  these  Pow 
waws  ever  able  to  do  these  Christian  In 
diana  any  hurt,  though  others  were  fre- 
eraently  hurt  and  killed  by  them."  — 
Mayheio,  pp.  6,  7,  c.  L 


he  has  heard  "  some  of  their  men  in  thin 
paine." 

NOTE  11,  page  5. 

Wuttamuttota,  "Let  us  drink."  We* 
Jean,  "  It  is  sweet."  Vide  Roger  Wil- 
liams's  Key  to  the  Indian  Language,  "  in 
that  parte  of  America  called  £Tew  Eng 
land."  London,  1643,  p.  35. 

NOTE  12,  page  6. 

Wetuomanit.  —  a  house  god,  or  demon. 
"  They  —  the  Indians  —  have  given  me  the 
names  of  thirty  -seven  gods  which  I  have, 
all  which  in  their  solemne  Worships 
they  invocate  !  "  R.  Williams's  Briefa 
Observations  of  the  Customs,  Manners, 
Worships,  &c.  ,  of  the  Natives,  in  Peace  ana 
Warre,  in  Life  and  Death  :  on  all  which 
is  added  Spiritual  Observations,  General 
and  Particular,  of  Chiefe  and  Special  use  — 
upon  all  occasions  —  to  all  the  English  in 
habiting  these  parts  ;  yet  Pleasant  and 
Profitable  to  the  view  of  all  Mene.  —  p. 
110,  c.  21. 

NOTE  13,  page  7 

Mt.  Desert  Island,  the  Bald  Mountain 
upon  which  overlooks  Frenchman's  and 
Penobscot  Bay.  It  was  upon  this  island 
that  the  Jesuits  made  their  earliest  settle 
ment. 

NOTE  14,  page  8. 

Father  Hennepin,  a  missionary  among 
the  Iroquois,  mentions  that  the  Indians 
believed  him  to  be  a  conjurer,  and  that  they 
were  particularly  afraid  of  a  bright  silver 
chalice  which  he  had  in  his  possession. 
"The  Indians,"  says  Pere  Jerome  Lalla- 
mant.  "  fear  us  as  the  greatest  sorcerers  on 
earth." 

NOTE  15,  page  8. 

Bomazeen  is  spoken  of  by  Penhallow,  as 
u  the  famous  warrior  and  chieftain  of  Nor- 
ridgewock."  He  was  killed  in  the  attack 
of  the  English  upon  Norridgewock,  in 
1724. 

NOTE  16,  page  9. 

Pere  Ralle,  or  Rasles,  was  one  of  »hr 
most  zealous  and  indefatigable  of  that  band! 
of  Jesuit  missionaries  who,  at  the  begin 
ning  of  the  seventeenth  century,  penetrated 
the  forests  of  America,  with  the  avowed 
object  of  converting  the  heathen.  T)u 


NOTES. 


465 


first  religious  mission  of  the  Jesuits,  to  the  j 
savages  in  North  America,  was  in  1611.  j 
The  zeal  of  the  fathers  for  the  conversion 
of  the  Indians  to  the  Catholic  faith  knew 
no  bounds.  For  this,  they  plunged  into 
the  depths  of  the  wilderness  ;  habituated 
themselves  to  all  the  hardships  and  priva 
tions  of  the  natives  ;  suffered  cold,  hunger, 
and  some  of  them  death  itself,  by  the  ex- 
tremest  tortures.  Pere  Brebeuf,  after 
laboring  in  the  cause  of  his  mission  for 
twenty  years,  together  with  his  companion, 
Pere  Lallamant,  was  burned  alive.  To 
these  might  be  added  the  names  of  those 
Jesuits  who  were  put  to  death  by  the 
Iroquois,  —  Daniel,  Garnier,  Buteaux,  La 
Riborerde,  Goupil,  Constantin,  and  Lie- 
geouis.  "  For  bed,"  says  Father  Lalla 
mant,  in  his  Relation  de  ce  qui  s'est  dans 
le  pays  des  Hurons,  1640,  c.  3,  "  we  have 
nothing  but  a  miserable  piece  of  bark  of  a 
tree  ;  for  nourishment,  a  handful  or  two 
of  corn,  either  roasted  or  soaked  in  water, 
which  seldom  satisfies  our  hunger  ;  and 
after  all,  not  venturing  to  perform  even  the 
ceremonies  of  our  religion,  without  being 
considered  as  sorcerers."  Their  success 
among  the  natives,  however,  by  no  means 
equalled  their  exertions.  Pere  Lallamant 
says  :  "  With  respect  to  adult  persons,  in 
good  health,  there  is  little  apparent  suc 
cess  ;  on  the  contrary,  there  have  been  noth 
ing  but  storms  and  whirlwinds  from  that 
quarter." 

Sebastian  Kalle  established  himself, 
some  time  about  the  year  1670,  at  Nor- 
ridgewock,  where  he  continued  more  than 
forty  years.  He  was  accused,  and  perhaps 
not  without  justice,  of  exciting  his  praying 
Indians  against  the  English,  whom  he 
looked  upon  as  the  enemies  not  only  of  his 
king,  but  also  of  the  Catholic  religion.  He 
was  killed  by  the  English,  in  1724,  at  the 
foot  of  the  cross  which  his  own  hands  had 
planted.  This  Indian  church  was  broken 
up,  and  its  members  cither  killed  outright 
or  dispersed. 

In  a  letter  written  by  Ralle  to  his  nephew 
he  gives  the  following  accoxint  of  his 
church,  and  his  own  labors:  "All  my 
converts  repair  to  the  church  regularly 
twice  every  day  ;  first,  very  early  in  the 
morning,  to  attend  mass,  and  again  in  the 
evening,  to  assist  in  the  prayers  at  sunset. 
As  it  is  necessary  to  fix  the  imagination  of 
savages,  whose  attention  is  easily  dis 
tracted,  I  have  composed  prayers,  calcu 
lated  to  inspire  them  with  just  sentiments  , 
of  the  august  sacrifice  of  our  altars  :  they  j 
chant,  or  at  least  recite  them  aloud,  during 
mass.  Besides  preaching  to  them  on  Sun 
days  and  saints'  days,  I  seldom  let  a  work 
ing-day  pass,  without  making  a  concise 


exhortation,  for  the  purpose  of  inspiring 
them  with  horror  at  those  vices  to  which 
they  are  most  addicted,  or  to  confirm  them 
in  the  practice  of  some  particular  virtue." 
Vide  Lettres  Edifiantes  et  Cur.,  Vol.  VI. 
p.  127. 

NOTE  17,  page  12. 

The  character  of  Ralle  has  probably 
never  been  correctly  delineated.  By  his 
brethren  of  the  Romish  Church,  he  has 
been  nearly  apotheosized.  On  the  other 
hand,  our  Puritan  historians  have  repre 
sented  him  as  a  demon  in  human  form. 
He  was  \indo  ubtedly  sincere  in  his  devotion 
to  the  interests  of  his  church,  and  not  over 
scrupulous  as  to  the  means  of  advancing 
those  interests.  "  The  French,"  says  the 
author  of  the  History  of  Saco  and  Bidde- 
ford,  "after  the  peace  of  1713,  secretly 
promised  to  supply  the  Indians  with  arms 
and  ammunition,  if  they  would  renew  hos 
tilities.  Their  principal  agent  was  the 
celebrated  Ralle,  the  French  Jesuit."  —  p. 
215. 

NOTE  18,  page  13. 

Hertel  de  Rouville  was  an  active  and 
unsparing  enemy  of  the  English.  He  was 
the  leader  of  the  combined  French  and 
Indian  forces  which  destroyed  Deerfield 
and  massacred  its  inhabitants,  in  1703. 
He  was  afterwards  killed  in  the  attack 
upon  Haverhill.  Tradition  says  that,  on 
examining  his  dead  body,  his  head  and  face 
were  found  to  be  perfectly  smooth,  without 
the  slightest  appearance  of  hair  or  beard. 

NOTE  19,  page  13. 

Cowesass  ?  —  tawhich  wessaseen  ?  Are 
you  afraid  ?  —  why  fear  you  ? 

NOTE  20,  page  15. 

Winnepurkit,  otherwise  called  George, 
Sachem  of  Saugus,  married  a  daughter  of 
Passaconaway,  the  great  Pennacook  chief 
tain,  in  1662.  The  wedding  took  place  at 
Pennacook  (now  Concord,  N.  H. ),  and  the 
ceremonies  closed  with  a  great  feast.  Ac 
cording  to  the  usages  of  the  chiefs,  Passa 
conaway  ordered  a  select  number  of  his  men 
to  accompany  the  newly-married  couple 
to  the  dwelling  of  the  husband,  where  in 
turn  there  was  another  great  feast.  Some 
time  after,  the  wife  of  Winnepurkit  ex 
pressing  a  desire  to  visit  her  father's  house, 
was  permitted  to  go,  accompanied  by  a 
brave  escort  of  her  husband's  chief  men. 
But  when  she  wished  to  return,  her  father 
sent  a  messenger  to  Saugus,  informing  her 
husband,  and  asking  him  to  come  and  take 
her  away.  He  returned  for  answer  that 


466 


NOTES. 


ne  had  escorted  his  wife  to  her  father's 
house  iu  a  style  that  became  a  chief,  and 
that  now  if  she  wished  to  return,  her 
father  must  send  her  back  in  the  same 
way.  This  Passaconaway  refused  to  do, 
and  it  is  said  that  here  terminated  the 
connection  of  his  daughter  with  the  Saugus 
chief.  —  Vide  Morton's  New  Canaan, 

NOTE  21,  page  18. 

This  was  the  name  which  the  Indians  of 
New  England  gave  to  two  or  three  of  their 
principal  chiefs,  to  whom  all  their  inferior 
sagamores  acknowledged  allegiance.  Pas 
saconaway  seems  to  have  been  one  of 
these  chiefs.  His  residence  was  at  Penna- 
cook.  (Mass.  Hist.  Coll.,  Vol.  III.  pp.  21, 
22.)  "  He  was  regarded,"  says  Hubbard, 
"  as  a  great  sorcerer,  and  his  fame  was 
widely  spread.  It  was  said  of  him  that  he 
could  cause  a  green  leaf  to  grow  in  winter, 
trees  to  dance,  water  to  burn,  &c .  He  was, 
undoubtedly,  one  of  those  shrewd  and  pow 
erful  men  whose  achievements  are  always 
regarded  by  a  barbarous  people  as  the  re 
sult  of  supernatural  aid.  The  Indians  gave 
to  such  the  names  of  Powahs  or  Panisees." 

"  The  Panisees  are  men  of  great  courage 
and  wisdom,  and  to  these  the  Devill  ap- 
peareth  more  familiarly  than  to  others."  — 
Winslow's  Relation. 

NOTE  22-,  page  20. 

"The  Indians,"  says  Eoger  Williams, 
*'  have  a  god  whom  they  call  Wetuomanit, 
wno  presides  over  the  household." 

NOTE  23,  page  22. 

There  are  rocks  in  the  river  at  the  Falls 
of  Amoskeag,  in  the  cavities  of  which, 
tradition  says,  the  Indians  formerly  stored 
and  concealed  their  corn. 

NOTE  24,  page  23. 

The  Spring  God.  —  See  Roger  Williams 's 
Key,  &c. 

NOTE  25,  page  25. 

"Mat  wonck  kunna-monee."  We  shall 
see  thee  or  her  no  more.  —  Vide  Roger 
Williams' s  Key  to  the  Indian  Language. 

NOTE  26,  page  26. 

"The  Great  South  West  God."— See 
Hoger  Williams' s  Observations,  &c. 

NOTE  27,  page  26. 

The  celebrated  Captain  Smith,  after  re 
signing  the  government  of  the  Colony  in 
Virginia,  in  his  capacity  of  "  Admiral  of 
New  England,"  made  a  careful  survey  of 
ttie  coast  from  Penobscot  to  Cape  Cod,  in 
tho  summer  of  1614. 


NOTE  28,  page  26. 

Lake  Wlnnipiseogee,  —  The  Smite  ofthi 
Great  Spirit,  —  che  source  of  one  of  the 
branches  of  the  Merrimack, 

NOTE  29,  page  26. 

Captain  Smith  gave  to  the  promontory, 
now  called  Cape  Ann,  the  name  of  Traga- 
bizanda,  in  memory  of  his  young  and 
beautiful  mistress  of  that  name,  who, 
while  he  was  a  captive  at  Constantinople, 
like  Desdemona,  "loved  him  for  the  da» 
gers  he  had  passed." 

NOTE  30,  page  27. 

Some  three  or  four  years  since,  a  frag, 
ment  of  a  statue,  rudelychiselled  from  dark 
gray  stone,  was  found  in  the  town  of  Brad 
ford,  on  the  Merrimack.  Its  origin  must 
be  left  entirely  to  conjecture.  The  fact 
that  the  ancient  Northmen  visited  New 
England,  some  centuries  before  the  dis 
coveries  of  Columbus,  is  now  very  generally 
admitted. 

NOTE  31,  page  36. 

De  Soto,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  pene 
trated  into  the  wilds  of  the  new  world  in 
search  of  gold  and  the  fountain  of  perpetual 
youth. 

NOTE  32,  page  41. 

TOUSSAINT  L'OuvERTURE,  the  black 
chieftain  of  Hayti,  was  a  slave  on  the  plan 
tation  "de  Libertas,"  belonging  to  M 
BAYOU.  When  the  rising  of  the  negroes 
took  place,  in  1791,  TOUSSAINT  refused  to 
join  them  until  he  had  aided  M.  BAYOU 
and  his  family  to  escape  to  Baltimore. 
The  white  man  had  discovered  in  Toussaint 
many  noble  qualities,  and  had  instructed 
him  in  some  of  the  first  branches  of  educa 
tion  ;  and  the  preservation  of  his  life  was 
owing  to  the  negro's  gratitude  for  thia 
kindness. 

In  1797,  Toussaint  L'Ouverture  was  ap 
pointed,  by  the  French  government,  Gen 
eral-in-Chief  of  the  armies  of  St.  Domingo, 
and,  as  such,  signed  the  Convention  with 
General  Maitland  for  the  evacuation  of  thw 
island  by  the  British.  From  this  period, 
until  1801,  the  island,  under  the  govern 
ment  of  Toussaint,  was  happy,  tranquil, 
and  prosperous.  The  miserable  attempt 
of  Napoleon  to  re-establish  slavery  in  St. 
Domingo,  although  it  failed  of  its  intended 
object,  proved  fatal  to  the  negro  chieftain. 
Treacherously  seized  by  Leclerc,  he  wa* 
hurried  on  board  a  vessel  by  night,  and 
conveyed  to  France,  where  he  was  confined 
in  a  cold  subterranean  dungeon,  at  Besan- 
c,on,  where,  in  April,  1803,  he  died.  Th« 
treatment  of,  Toussaint  finds  a  paralle/ 


NOTES. 


467 


only  In  the  murder  of  the  Duke  D'Eoghien. 
It  was  the  remark  of  Godwin,  in  his  Lec 
tures,  that  the  West  India  Islands,  since 
their  first  discovery  by  Columbus,  could 
not  boast  of  a  single  name  which  deserves 
comparison  with  that  of  Toussaint  L'Ouver- 
ture. 

NOTE  33,  page  43. 

The  reader  may,  perhaps,  call  to  mind 
the  beautiful  sonnet  of  William  Words 
worth,  addressed  to  Toussaint  L'Ouverture, 
during  his  confinement  in  France. 

*'  Toussaint !  —  thou  most  unhappy  man  of  men ! 

Whether  the  whistling  rustic  tends  his  plough 

Within  thy  hearing,  or  thou  liest  now 
Buried  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless  den ; 
0  miserable  chieftain !  —  where  and  when 

Wilt  thou  find  patience  ?  — Yet,  die  not,  do 
thou 

Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow ; 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again, 
Live  and  take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left  behind 

Powers  that  will  work  for  thee ;  air,  earth,  and 

skies, — 
There  's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 

That  will  forget  thee :  thou  hast  great  allies 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 

And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind." 

NOTE  34,  page  43. 

The  French  ship  LE  RODEUR,  with  a 
crew  of  twenty-two  men,  and  with  one 
hundred  and  sixty  negro  slaves,  sailed  from 
Bonny,  in  Africa,  April,  1819.  On  ap 
proaching  the  line,  a  terrible  malady  broke 
out,  —  an  obstinate  disease  of  the  eyes,  — 
contagious,  and  altogether  beyond  the 
resources  of  medicine.  It  was  aggravated 
by  the  scarcity  of  water  among  the  slaves 
(only  half  a  wineglass  per  day  being  al 
lowed  to  an  individual),  and  by  the  extreme 
impurity  of  the  air  in  which  they  breathed. 
By  the  advice  of  the  physician,  they  were 
brought  upon  deck  occasionally  ;  but  some 
of  the  poor  wretches,  locking  themselves 
in  each  other's  arms,  leaped  overboard,  in 
the  hope,  which  so  universally  prevails 
among  them,  of  being  swiftly  transported 
to  their  own  homes  in  Africa.  To  check 
this,  the  captain  ordered  several  who  were 
stopped  in  the  attempt  to  be  shot,  or 
hanged,  before  their  companions.  The 
disease  extended  to  the  crew  ;  and  one 
after  another  were  smitten  with  it,  until 
only  one  remained  unaffected.  Yet  even 
this  dreadful  condition  did  not  preclude 
calculation  :  to  save  the  expense  of  sup 
porting  slaves  rendered  unsalable,  and  to 
obtain  grounds  fora  claim  against  the  under 
writers,  thirty-six  of  the  negroes,  having 
become  blind,  were  thrown  into  the  sea  and 
irowned  t 

In  the  midst  of  their  dreadful  fears  lest 
.to  solitary  individual,  whose  sight  rs- 


mained  unaffected,  should  also  be  seized 
with  the  malady,  a  sail  was  discovered.  It 
was  the  Spanish  slaver,  Leon.  The  sama 
disease  had  been  there  ;  and,  horrible  to 
tell,  all  the  crew  had  become  blind  !  Un 
able  to  assist  each  other,  the  vessels  parted. 
The  Spanish  ship  has  never  since  been 
heard  of.  The  Rodeur  reached  Guada- 
loupe  on  the  21st  of  June  ;  the  only  man 
who  had  escaped  the  disease,  and  had  thus- 
been  enabled  to  steer  the  slaver  into  port 
caught  it  in  three  days  after  its  arrival.  - 
Speech  of  M.  Benjamin  Constant,  in  th<. 
French  Chamber  of  Deputies,  June  17 
1820. 

NOTE  35,  page  61. 

The  Northern  author  of  the  Congression 
al  rule  against  receiving  petitions  of  thcJ 
people  on  the  subject  of  Slavery. 


NOTE  36,  page  70. 

Dr.  Thacher,  surgeon  in  Scammel's  regi 
ment,  in  his  description  of  the  siege  of 
Yorktown,  says  :  "  The  labor  on  the  Vir 
ginia  plantations  is  performed  altogether 
by  a  species  of  the  human  race  cruelly 
wrested  from  their  native  country,  and 
doomed  to  perpetual  bondage,  while  their 
masters  are  manfully  contending  for  free 
dom  and  the  natural  rights  of  man.  Such 
is  the  inconsistency  of  human  nature." 
Eighteen  hundred  slaves  were  found  at 
Yorktown,  after  its  surrender,  and  restored 
to  their  masters.  Well  was  it  said  by  Dr. 
Barnes,  in  his  late  work  on  Slavery  :  "  No 
slave  was  any  nearer  his  freedom  after  the 
surrender  of  Yorktown  than  when  Patrick 
Henry  first  taught  the  notes  of  liberty  to 
echo  among  the  hills  and  vales  of  Virginia." 

NOTE  37,  page  76. 

The  rights  and  liberties  affirmed  by 
MAGNA  CHARTA  were  deemed  of  such  im 
portance,  in  the  thirteenth  century,  that 
the  Bishops,  twice  a  year,  with  tapers 
burning,  and  in  their  pontifical  robes,  pro 
nounced,  in  the  presence  of  the  king  and 
the  representatives  of  the  estates  of  Eng 
land,  the  greater  excommunication  against 
the  infringer  of  that  instrument.  The  im 
posing  ceremony  took  place  in  the  great 
Hall  of  Westminster.  A  copy  of  the  curse, 
as  pronounced  in  1253,  declares  that,  "  by 
the  authority  of  Almighty  God,  and  the 
blessed  Apostles  and  Martyrs,  and  all  the 
saints  in  heaven,  all  those  who  violate  the 
English  liberties,  and  secretly  or  openly, 
by  deed,  word,  or  counsel,  do  make  stat 
utes,  or  observe  them  being  made,  against 
said  liberties,  are  accursed  and  sequestered 
from  the  company  of  heaven  and  the  sacra 
ments  of  the  Holy  Church." 


468 


NOTES. 


WILLIAM  PENN,  in  his  admirable  politi 
cal  pamphlet,  "  England's  Present  Interest 
considered,"  alluding  to  the  curse  of  the 
Charter-breakers,  says  :  "I  am  no  Roman 
Catholic,  and  little  value  their  other  curses ; 
yet  I  declare  I  would  not  for  the  world  in 
cur  this  curse,  as  every  man  deservedly 
doth,  who  offers  violence  to  the  funda 
mental  freedom  thereby  repeated  and  con 
firmed.  " 

NOTE  38,  page  91. 

"The  manner  in  which  the  Waldenses 
and  heretics  disseminated  their  principles 
among  the  Catholic  gentry,  was  by  carry 
ing  with  them  a  box  of  trinkets,  or  articles 
of  dress.  Having  entered  the  houses  of 
the  gentry  and  disposed  of  some  of  their 
goods,  they  cautiously  intimated  that  they 
had  commodities  far  more  valuable  than 
these,  —  inestimable  jewels,  which  they 
would  show  if  they  could  be  protected 
from  the  clergy.  They  would  then  give 
their  purchasers  a  Bible  or  Testament ;  and 
thereby  many  were  deluded  into  heresy.  "— 
R.  Saccho. 

NOTE  39,  page  107. 

Chalkley  Hall,  near  Frankford,  Pa., 
the  residence  of  THOMAS  CHALKLEY,  an 
eminent  minister  of  the  Friends'  denomi 
nation.  He  was  one  of  the  early  settlers  of 
the  Colony,  and  his  Journal,  which  was 
published  in  1749,  presents  a  quaint  but 
beautiful  picture  of  a  life  of  unostentatious 
and  simple  goodness.  He  was  the  master 
of  a  merchant  vessel,  and,  in  his  visits  to 
the  West  Indies  and  Great  Britain,  omitted 
no  opportunity  to  labor  for  the  highest  in 
terests  of  his  fellow-men.  During  a  tem 
porary  residence  in  Philadelphia,  in  the 
summer  of  1838,  the  quiet  and  beautiful 
scenery  around  the  ancient  village  of 
Frankford  frequently  attracted  me  from 
the  heat  and  bustle  of  the  city. 

NOTE  40,  page  110. 

August.  Soliloq.  cap.  xxxi.  "  Interrogavi 
Terrain,"  &c. 

NOTE  41,  page  112. 

For  the  idea  of  this  line,  I  am  indebted 
to  Emerson,  in  his  inimitable  sonnet  to  the 
Rhodora,  — 

"  If  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 
Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being." 

NOTE  42,  page  121. 

Among  the  earliest  converts  to  the 
doctrines  of  Friends  in  Scotland  was 
Barclay  of  Ury,  an  old  and  distinguished 
soldier,  who  had  fought  under  Gustavus 
Adolphus,  in  Germany.  As  a  Quaker,  he 


became  the  object  of  persecution  and  abuse 
at  the  hands  of  the  magistrates  and  the 
populace.  None  bore  the  indignities  of 
the  mob  with  greater  patience  and  noble 
ness  of  soul  than  this  once  proud  gentle 
man  and  soldier.  One  of  his  friends,  on 
an  occasion  of  uncommon  rudeness,  lament 
ed  that  he  should  be  treated  so  "harshly  in 
his  old  age  who  had  been  so  honored  be 
fore.  "  I  find  more  satisfaction,"  said 
Barclay,  "  as  well  as  honor,  in  being  thus 
insulted  for  my  religious  principles,  than 
when,  a  few  years  ago,  it  was  usual  for  the 
magistrates,  as  I  passed  the  city  of  Aber 
deen,  to  meet  me  on  the  road  and  conduct 
me  to  public  entertainment  in  their 
hall,  and  then  escort  me  out  again,  to  gain 
my  favor." 

NOTE  43,  page  131. 

Lucy  Hooper  died  at  Brooklyn,  L.  I., 
on  the  1st  of  8th  mo.,  1841,  aged  24  years. 

NOTE  44,  page  132. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Dr.  Channing  was 
in  the  summer  of  1841,  when,  in  company 
with  my  English  friend,  Joseph  Sturge,  so 
well  known  for  his  philanthropic  labors 
and  liberal  political  opinions,  I  visited  him 
in  his  summer  residence  in  Rhode  Island. 
In  recalling  the  impressions  of  that  visit, 
it  can  scarcely  be  necessary  to  say,  that  I 
have  no  reference  to  the  pe'culiar  religious 
opinions  of  a  man  whose  life,  beautifully 
and  truly  manifested  above  the  atmos 
phere  of  sect,  is  now  the  world's  common 
legacy. 

NOTE  45,  page  135. 

"0  vine  of  Sibmah  !  I  will  weep  for 
thee  with  the  weeping  of  Jazer  !  "  —  Jere 
miah  xlviii.  32. 

NOTE  46,  page  138. 

Sophia  Sturge,  sister  of  Joseph  Sturge, 
of  Birmingham,  the  President  of  the  British 
Complete  Suffrage  Association,  died  in 
the  6th  month,  1845.  She  was  the  col 
league,  counsellor,  and  ever-read y  helpmate 
of  her  brother  in  all  his  vast  designs  of 
beneficence.  The  Birmingham  Pilot  says 
of  her  :  "Never,  perhaps,  were  the  active 
and  passive  virtues  of  the  human  character 
more  harmoniously  and  beautifully  blended 
than  in  this  excellent  woman." 

NOTE  47,  page  139. 

Winnipiseogee  :  "  Smile  of  the  Great 
Spirit. " 

NOTE  48,  page  142. 

This  legend  is  the  subject  of  a  celebrated 
I  picture  by  Tintoretto,  of  which  Mr.  Rogers 
'  possesses  the  original  sketch.  The  slave 


NOTES. 


469 


lies  on  the  ground,  amid  a  crowd  of  spec 
tators,  who  look  on,  animated  by  all  the 
various  emotions  of  sympathy,  rage,  terror; 
a  woman,  in  front,  with  a  child  in  her 
arms,  has  always  been  admired  for  the 
lifelike  vivacity  of  her  attitude  and  expres 
sion.  The  executioner  holds  up  the  broken 
implements  ;  St.  Mark,  with  a  headlong 
movement,  seems  to  rush  down  from 
heaven  in  haste  to  save  his  worshipper. 
The  dramatic  grouping  in  this  picture  is 
wonderful  ;  the  coloring,  in  its  gorgeous 
depth  and  harmony,  is,  in  Mr.  Rogers's 
sketch,  finer  than  in  the  picture. — Mrs. 
Jamieson's  Poetry  of  Sacred  and  Legen- 
Art,  Vol.  I.  p.  121. 


NOTE  49,  page  143. 

Pennant,  in  his  "Voyage  to  the  Heb 
rides,"  describes  the  holy  well  of  Loch 
Maree,  the  waters  of  which  were  supposed 
to  effect  a  miraculous  cure  of  melancholy, 
trouble,  and  insanity. 

NOTE  50,  page  145. 

The  writer  of  these  lines  is  no  enemy  of 
Catholics.  He  has,  on  more  than  one  occa 
sion,  exposed  himself  to  the  censures  of 
his  Protestant  brethren,  by  his  strenuous 
endeavors  to  procure  indemnification  for 
the  owners  of  the  convent  destroyed  near 
Boston.  He  defended  the  cause  of  the 
Irish  patriots  long  before  it  had  become 
popular  in  this  country  ;•  and  he  was  one 
of  the  first  to  urge  the  most  liberal  aid  to 
the  suffering  and  starving  population  of 
the  Catholic  island.  The  severity  of  his 
language  finds  its  ample  apology  in  the 
reluctant  confession  of  one  of  the  most 
eminent  Romish  priests,  the  eloquent  and 
devoted  Father  Ventura. 

NOTE  51,  page  146. 

Ebenezer  Elliott,  the  intelligence  of  whose 
death  has  recently  reached  us,  was,  to  the 
artisans  of  England,  what  Burns  was  to  the 
peasantry  of  Scotland.  His  "  Corn-law 
Rhymes  "  contributed  not  a  little  to  that 
overwhelming  tide  of  popular  opinion  and 
feeling  which  resulted  in  the  repeal  of  the 
tax  on  bread.  Well  has  the  eloquent 
author  of  "  The  Reforms  and  Reformers 
of  Great  Britain  "  said  of  him,  "  Not  corn- 
law  repealers  alone,  but  all  Britons  who 
moisten  their  scanty  bread  with  the 
sweat  of  the  brow,  are  largely  indebted  to 
his  inspiring  lay,  for  the  mighty  bound 
which  the  laboring  mind  of  England  has 
taken  in  our  day." 

NOTE  52,  page  147. 

The  reader  of  the  Biography  of  the  1  \te 
William  Allen,  the  philanthropic  associate 


of  Clarkson  and  Rom  illy,  cannot  fail  to 
admire  his  simple  and  beautiful  record  of 
a  tour  through  Europe,  in  the  years  1818 
and  1819,  in  the  company  of  his  American 
friend,  Stephen  Grellett. 

NOTE  53,  page  154. 

"  Thou  'mind'st  me  of  a  story  told 
In  rare  Bernardin's  leaves  of  gold." 

The  incident  here  referred  to  is  related 
in  a  note  to  Bernardin  Henri  Saint  Pierre's 
Etudes  de  la  Nature. 

"  We  arrived  at  the  habitation  of  the 
Hermits  a  little  before  they  sat  down  to 
their  table,  and  while  they  were  still  at 
church.  J.  J.  Rousseau  proposed  to  me 
to  offer  up  our  devotions.  The  hermits 
were  reciting  the  Litanies  of  Providence, 
which  are  remarkably  beautiful.  After  we 
had  addressed  our  prayers  to  God,  and  the 
hermits  were  proceeding  to  the  refectory, 
Rousseau  said  to  me,  with  his  heart  over 
flowing,  '  At  this  moment  I  experience 
what  is  said  in  the  gospel :  Where  two  or 
three  are  gathered  together  in  my  name,  there 
am  I  in  the  midst  of  them.  There  is  here  a 
feeling  of  peace  and  happiness  which  pene 
trates  the  soul. '  I  said,  '  If  Fenelon  had 
lived,  you  would  have  been  a  Catholic.' 
He  exclaimed,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  '  0,  if 
Fenelon  were  alive,  I  would  struggle  to  get 
into  his  service,  even  as  a  lackey  ! ' " 

In  my  sketch  of  Saint  Pierre,  it  will  be 
seen  that  I  have  somewhat  antedated  the 
period  of  his  old  age.  At  that  time  he  was 
not  probably  more  than  fifty.  In  describ 
ing  him,  I  have  by  no  means  exaggerated 
his  own  history  of  his  mental  condition 
at  the  period  of  the  story.  In  the  fragmen 
tary  Sequel  to  his  Studies  of  Nature,  he 
thus  speaks  of  himself  :  "  The  ingratitude 
of  those  of  whom  I  had  deserved  kind 
ness,  unexpected  family  misfortunes,  the 
total  loss  of  my  small  patrimony  through 
enterprises  solely  undertaken  for  the  benefit 
of  my  country,  the  debts  under  which  I 
lay  oppressed,  the  blasting  of  all  my  hopes, 
—  these  combined  calamities  made  dread 
ful  inroads  upon  my  health  and  reason. 
....  I  found  it  impossible  to  continue 
in  a  room  where  there  was  company,  espe 
cially  if  the  doors  were  shut.  I  could  not 
even  cross  an  alley  in  a  public  garden,  if 
several  persons  had  got  together  in  it. 
When  alone,  my  malady  subsided.  I  felt 
myself  likewise  at  ease  in  places  where  I 
saw  children  only.  At  the  sight  of  any  one 
walking  up  to  the  place  where  I  was,  I  felt 
my  whole  frame  agitated,  and  retired.  I 
often  said  to  myself,  '  My  sole  study  has 
been  to  merit  well  of  mankind  ;  why  do  I 
fear  them  ? '  " 

He  attributes  his  improved  health  o;; 


470 


NOTES. 


mind  and  body  to  the  counsels  of  his 
friend,  J.  J.  Eousseau.  "  I  renounced," 
says  he,  "  my  books.  I  threw  my  eyes 
upon  the  works  of  nature,  which  spake  to 
all  my  senses  a  language  which  neither 
time  nor  nations  have  it  in  their  power  to 
altej-.  Thenceforth  my  histories  and  my 
journals  were  the  herbage  of  the  fields 
and  meadows.  My  thoughts  did  not  go 
forth  painfully  after  them,  as  in  the  case 
of  human  systems  ;  but  their  thoughts, 
'under  a  thousand  engaging  forms,  quietly 
sought  me.  In  these  I  studied,  without 
effort,  the  laws  of  that  Universal  Wisdom 
which  had  surrounded  me  from  the  cradle, 
but  on  which  heretofore  I  had  bestowed 
little  attention." 

Speaking  of  Rousseau,  he  says  :  "I  de 
rived  inexpressible  satisfaction  from  his 
society.  What  I  prized  still  more  than  his 
genius,  was  his  probity.  He  was  one  of 
the  few  literary  characters,  tried  in  the 
furnace  of  affliction,  to  whom  you  could, 
with  perfect  security,  confide  your  most 
secret  thoughts Even  when  he  de 
viated,  and  became  the  victim  of  himself 
or  of  others,  he  could  forget  his  own  misery 
in  devotion  to  the  welfare  of  mankind. 
He  was  uniformly  the  advocate  of  the 
miserable.  There  might  be  inscribed  on 
his  tomb  these  affecting  words  from  that 
Book  of  which  he  carried  always  about 
him  some  select  passages,  during  the  last 
years  of  his  life  :  His  sins,  which  are  many, 
are  forgiven,  for  Jte  loved  much." 

NOTE  54,  page  155. 
"  Like  that  the  gray-haired  sea-king  passed." 

Dr.  Hooker,  who  accompanied  Sir  James 
Ross  in  his  expedition  of  1841,  thus  de 
scribes  the  appearance  of  that  unknoAvn 
land  of  frost  and  fire  which  was  seen  in 
latitude  77°  south,  —  a  stupendous  chain 
of  mountains,  the  whole  mass  of  which, 
from  its  highest  point  to  the  ocean,  was 
covered  with  everlasting  snow  and  ice  :  — 

"The  water  and  the  sky  were  both  as 
blue,  or  rather  more  intensely  blue,  than  I 
have  ever  seen  them  in  the  tropics,  and  all 
the  coast  was  one  mass  of  dazzlingly  beau 
tiful  peaks  of  snow,  which,  when  the  sun 
approached  the  horizon,  reflected  the  most 
brilliant  tints  of  golden  yellow  and  scarlet  ; 
and  then,  to  see  the  dark  eloud  of  smoke, 
tinged  with  flame,  rising  from  the  volcano 
in  a  perfect  unbroken  column,  one  side  jet- 
black,  the  other  giving  back  the  colors  of 
the  SUM,  sometimes  turning  off  at  a  right 
angle  by  some  current  of  wind,  and 
stretching  many  miles  to  leeward  !  This 
was  a  sight  so  surpassing  everything  that 
can  be  imagined,  and  so  heightened  by  the 
consciousness  that  we  had  penetrated,  un 


der  the  guidance  of  our  commander,  into 
regions  far  beyond  what  was  ever  deemed 
practicable,  that  it  caused  a  feeling  of  awe 
to  steal  over  us  at  the  consideration  of  our 
own  comparative  insignificance  and  help 
lessness,  and  at  the  same  time  an  indescrib 
able  feeling  of  the  greatness  of  the  Creator 
in  the  works  of  his  hand." 

NOTE  55,  page  161. 

The  election  of  Charles  Sumner  to  the 
U.  S.  Senate  "followed  hard  upon"  the 
rendition  of  the  fugitive  Sims  by  the  U.  S. 
officials  and  the  armed  police  of  Boston. 

NOTE  56,  page  164. 

The  storming  of  the  city  of  Derne,  in 
1805,  by  General  Eaton,  at  the  head  of  nine 
Americans,  forty  Greeks,  and  a  motley 
array  of  Turks  and  Arabs,  was  one  of  those 
feats  of  hardihood  and  daring  which  have 
in  all  ages  attracted  the  admiration  of  the 
multitude.  The  higher  and  holier  heroism 
of  Christian  self-denial  and  sacrifice,  in  the 
humble  walks  of  private  duty,  is  seldom  so 
well  appreciated. 

NOTE  57,  page  167. 

It  is  proper  to  say  that  these  lines  are 
the  joint  impromptus  of  my  sister  and  my 
self.  They  are  inserted  here  as  an  expres 
sion  of  our  admiration  of  the  gifted 
stranger  whom  we  have  since  learned  to 
love  as  a  friend. 

NOTE  58,  page  171. 

This  ballad  was  originally  published  in 
a  prose  work  of  the  author's,  as  the  song 
of  a  wandering  Milesian  schoolmaster. 

In  the  seventeenth  century,  slavery  in  the 
New  World  was  by  no  means  confined  to 
the  natives  of  Africa.  Political  offenders 
and  criminals  were  transported  by  the 
British  government  to  the  plantations  of 
Barbadoes  and  Virginia,  where  they  were 
sold  like  cattle  in  the  market.  Kidnap 
ping  of  free  and  innocent  white  persons  was 
practised  to  a  considerable  extent  in  the 
seaports  of  the  United  Kingdom. 

NOTE  59,  page  172. 

It  can  scarcely  be  necessary  to  say  that 
there  are  elements  in  the  character  and 
passages  in  the  history  of  the  great  Hun 
garian  statesman  and  orator,  which  neces 
sarily  command  the  admiration  of  those, 
even,  who  believe  that  no  political  revolu 
tion  was  ever  worth  the  price  of  human 
blood. 

NOTE  60,  page  175. 
"  Homilies  from  Oldbug  hear." 

Dr.  W ,  author  of  "The  Puritan," 

under  the  name  of  Jonathan  Oldbug. 


NOTES. 


471 


NOTE  61,  page  187. 

William  Forster,  of  Norwich,  England, 
died  in  East  Tennessee,  in  the  1st  month, 
1854,  while  engaged  in  presenting  to  the 
governors  of  the  States  of  this  Union  the 
iiddress  of  his  religious  society  on  the  evils 
>f  slavery.  He  was  the  relative  and  coad 
jutor  of  the  Buxtons,  Gurneys,  and  Frys  ; 
dnd  his  whole  life,  extending  almost  to 
threescore  and  ten  years,  was  a  pure  and 
beautiful  example  of  Christian  benevolence. 
He  had  travelled  over  Europe,  and  visited 
most  of  its  sovereigns,  to  plead  against  the 
slave-trade  and  slavery  ;  and  had  twice 
before  made  visits  to  this  country,  under 
impressions  of  religious  duty. 

NOTE  62,  page  188. 

No  more  fitting  inscription  could  be 
placed  on  the  tombstone  of  Robert  Rantoul 
than  this  :  "  He  died  at  his  post  in  Con 
gress,  and  his  last  words  were  a  protest  in 
the  name  of  Democracy  against  the  Fugi 
tive-Slave  Law." 

NOTE  63,  page  200. 

"Sebah,  Oasis  of  Fezzan,  10th  March, 
1846.  —  This  evening  the  female  slaves 
were  unusually  excited  in  singing,  and  I 
had  the  curiosity  to  ask  my  negro  servant, 
Said,  what  they  were  singing  about.  As 
many  of  them  were  natives  of  his  own 
country,  he  had  no  difficulty  in  translating 
the  Mandara  or  Bornou  language.  I  had 
often  asked  the  Moors  to  translate  their 
songs  for  me,  but  got  no  satisfactory  ac 
count  from  them.  Said  at  first  said,  '0, 
they  sing  of  Rubee  '  (God).  '  What  do  you 
mean  ? '  I  replied,  impatiently.  '  O,  don't 
you  know  ? '  he  continued,  '  they  asked  God 
to  give  them  their  Atka  1 '  (certificate  of 
freedom. )  I  inquired,  '  Is  that  all  ?  Said  : 
'No;  they  say,  "Where  are  we  going? 
The  world  is  large.  0  God  !  Where  are 
we  going  ?  0  God  /  "  '  I  inquired,  '  What 
else  ? '  Said  :  '  They  remember  their  coun 
try,  Bornou,  and  say,  "Bornou  was  a 
pleaswit  country,  full  of  all  good  things  ; 
but  this  is  a  bad  country,  and  we  are  miser 
able  /  "  '  'Do  they  say  anything  else  ? ' 
Said  :  '  No  ;  they  repeat  these  words  over 
and  over  again,  and  add,  "  0  God  !  give  us 
our  Atka,  and  let  us  return  again  to  our 
dear  home."  ' 

"  I  am  not  surprised  I  got  little  satisfac 
tion  when  I  asked  the  Moors  about  the 
songs  of  their  slaves.  Who  will  say  that 
the  above  words  are  not  a  very  appropriate 
song  ?  What  could  have  been  more  conge 
nially  adapted  to  their  then  woful  condi 
tion  ?  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  these 
poor  bondwomen  cheer  up  their  hearts,  in 


their  long,  lonely,  and  painful  wanderings 
over  the  desert,  with  words  and  sentiments 
like  these  ;  but  I  have  often  observed  that 
their  fatigue  and  sufferings  were  too  great 
for  them  to  strike  up  this  melancholy  dirge, 
and  many  days  their  plaintive  strains 
never  broke  over  the  silence  of  the  desert. " 
—  Richardson's  Journal. 

NOTE  64,  page  201. 

One  of  the  latest  and  most  interesting 
items  of  Eastern  news  is  the  statement 
that  Slavery  has  been  formally  and  totally 
abolished  in  Egypt. 

NOTE  65,  page  213. 

A  letter  from  England,  in  the  Friends' 
Review,  says:  "Joseph  Sturge,  with  a 
companion,  Thomas  Harvey,  has  been 
visiting  the  shores  of  Finland,  to  ascertain 
the  amount  of  mischief  and  loss  to  poor 
and  peaceable  sufferers,  occasioned  by  the 
gunboats  of  the  Allied  squadrons  in  the 
late  war,  with  a  view  to  obtaining  relief 
for  them." 

NOTE  66,  page  226. 

A  remarkable  custom,  brought  from  the 
Old  Country,  formerly  prevailed  in  the 
rural  districts  of  New  England.  On  the 
death  of  a  member  of  the  family,  the  bees 
were  at  once  informed  of  the  event,  and 
their  hives  dressed  in  mourning.  This 
ceremonial  was  supposed  to  be  necessary 
to  prevent  the  swarms  from  leaving  their 
hives  and  seeking  a  new  home. 

NOTE  67,  page  235. 

"Too  late  I  loved  Thee,  0  Beauty  of 
ancient  days,  yet  ever  new !  And  lo ! 
Thou  wert  within,  and  I  abroad  searching 
for'thee.  Thou  wert  with  me,  but  I  was  not 
with  Thee."  —  August.  Soliloq.,  Book  X. 

NOTE  68,  page  235. 

"  And  I  saw  that  there  was  an  Ocean  of 
Darkness  and  Death  :  but  an  infinite 
Ocean  of  Light  and  Love  flowed  over  the 
Ocean  of  Darkness  :  And  in  that  I  saw  the 
infinite  Love  of  God. "  —  George  Fox's 
Journal. 

NOTE  69,  page  243. 

The  massacre  of  unarmed  and  unoffend 
ing  men,  in  Southern  Kansas,  took  place 
near  the  Marais  du  Cygne  of  the  French 
voyageurs. 

NOTE  70,  page  254. 

Read  at  the  Friends'  School  Anniversary, 
Providence,  R.  I.,  6th  mo.,  1860. 

NOTE  71,  page  264. 
See    English    caricatures    of    America: 


472 


NOTES. 


Slaveholder  and  cowhide,  with  the  motto, 
"  Have  n't  I  a  right  to  wallop  my  nigger  ?  " 

NOTE  72,  page  266. 

It  is  recorded  that  the  Chians,  when 
subjugated  by  Mithridates  of  Cappadocia, 
were  delivered  up  to  their  own  slaves,  to 
be  carried  away  captive  to  Colchis. 
A-thenaeus  considers  this  a  just  punishment 
for  their  wickedness  in  first  introducing 
the  slave-trade  into  Greece.  From  this 
ancient  villany  of  the  Chians  the  proverb 
arose,  "The  Chian  hath  bought  himself  a 
master." 

NOTE  73,  page  270. 

This  ballad  was  written  on  fie  occasion 
of  a  Horticultural  Festival.  ( '  .bbler  Kee- 
zar  was  a  noted  character  among  the  first 
settlers  in  the  valley  of  the  Merrimack. 

NOTE  74,  page  283. 

Lieutenant  Herndori's  Report  of  the 
Exploration  of  the  Amazon  has  a  striking 
description  of  the  peculiar  and  melancholy 
notes  of  a  bird  heard  by  night  on  the 
shores  of  the  river.  The  Indian  guides 
called  it  "  The  Cry  of  a  Lost  Soul  "  ! 

NOTE  75,  page  361. 

Eleonora  Johanna  Von  Merlau,  or,  as 
Sewall  the  Quaker  Historian  gives  it,  Von 
Merlane,  a  noble  young  lady  of  Frankfort, 
seems  to  have  held  among  the  Mystics  of 
that  city  very  much  such  a  position  as 
Annia  Maria  Schurinaus  did  among  the 
Labadists  of  Holland.  William  Penn 
appears  to  have  shared  the  admiration  of 
her  own  immediate  circle  for  this  accom 
plished  and  gifted  lady. 

NOTE  76,  page  363. 

Magister  Johann  Kelpius,  a  graduate  of 
the  University  of  Helmstadt,  came  to 
Pennsylvania  in  1694,  with  a  company  of 
German  Mystics.  They  made  their  home 
in  the  woods  on  the  Wissahickon,  a  little 
west  of  the  Quaker  settlement  of  German- 
town.  Kelpius  was  a  believer  in  the  near 
approach  of  the  Millennium,  and  was  a 
devout  student  of  the  Book  of  Revelation, 
and  the  Morgen-Rothe  of  Jacob  Behmen, 
He  called  his  settlement  "The  Woman  in 
the  Wilderness "  (Das  Weib  in  der 
Wueste).  He  was  only  twenty-four  years 
of  age  when  he  came  to  America,  but  his 
gravity,  learning,  and  devotion  placed  him 
at  the  head  of  the  settlement.  He  disliked 
the  Quakers,  because  he  thought  they  were 
too  exclusive  in  the  matter  of  ministers. 
He  was,  like  most  of  the  Mystics,  opposed 
to  the  severe  doctrinal  views  of  Calvin  and 
.  even  Luther,  declaring  "that  he  could  as 
little  agree  with  the  Damnamus  of  the 


Augsburg  Confession  as  with  the  Anathema 
of  the  Council  of  Trent. " 

He  died  in  1704,  sitting  in  his  little  garden 
surrounded  by  his  grieving  disciples.  Pre 
vious  to  his  death  it  is  said  that  he  cast 
his  famous  "  Stone  of  Wisdom"  into  the 
river,  where  that  mystic  souvenir  of  the 
times  of  Van  Helmont,  Paracelsus,  and 
Agrippa  has  lain  ever  since,  undisturbed. 

NOTE  77,  page  363. 

Peter  Sluyter,  or  Schluter,  a  native  of 
Wesel,  united  himself  with  the  sect  of 
Labadists,  who  believed  in  the  Divine  com 
mission  of  John  De  Labadie,  a  Roman 
Catholic  priest  converted  to  Protestantism, 
enthusiastic,  eloquent,  and  evidently  sin 
cere  in  his  special  calling  and  election  to 
separate  the  true  and  living  members  of 
the  Church  of  Christ  from  the  formalism 
and  hypocrisy  of  the  ruling  sects.  George 
Keith  and  Robert  Barclay  visited  him  at 
Amsterdam  and  afterward  at  the  communi 
ties  of  Herford  and  Wieward  ;  and,  accord 
ing  to  Gerard  Croes,  found  him  so  near  to 
them  on  some  points,  that  they  offered  to 
take  him  into  the  Society  of  Friends.  This 
offer,  if  it  was  really  made,  which  is  cer 
tainly  doubtful,  was,  happily  for  the 
Friends  at  least,  declined.  Invited  to 
Herford  in  Westphalia  by  Elizabeth, 
daughter  of  the  Elector  Palatine,  De 
Labadie  and  his  followers  preached  inces 
santly,  and  succeeded  in  arousing  a  wild 
enthusiasm  among  the  people,  who  neg 
lected  their  business  and  gave  way  to  ex 
citements  and  strange  practices.  Men  and 
women,  it  was  said,  at  the  Communion 
drank  and  danced  together,  and  private 
marriages,  or  spiritual  unions,  were  formed. 
Labadie  died  in  1674  at  Altona,  in  Den 
mark,  maintaining  his  testimonies  to  the 
last.  "  Nothing  remains  for  me,"  he  said, 
"  except  to  go  to  my  God.  Death  is 
merely  ascending  from  a  lower  and  nar 
rower  chamber  to  one  higher  and  holier." 

In  1679,  Peter  Sluyter  and  Jasper  Dan- 
kers  were  sent  to  America  by  the  commu 
nity  at  the  Castle  of  Wieward.  Their 
journal,  translated  from  the  Dutch  and 
edited  by  Henry  C.  Murphy,  has  been 
recently  published  by  the  Long  Island 
Historical  Society.  They  made  some  con 
verts,  and  among  them  Avas  the  eldest  son 
of  Hermanns,  the  proprietor  of  a  rich  tract 
of  laud  at  the  head  of  Chesapeake  Bay, 
known  as  Bohemia  Manor.  Sluyter  ob 
tained  a  grant  of  this  tract,  and  established 
upon  it  a  community  numbering  at  one 
time  a  hundred  souls.  Very  contradictory 
statements  are  on  record  regarding  his 
headship  of  this  spiritual  family,  the  disci 
pline  of  which  seems  to  have  been  of  mor? 


NOTES. 


473 


than  monastic  severity.  Certain  it  is  that 
he  bought  and  sold  slaves,  and  manifested 
more  interest  in  the  world's  goods  than 
became  a  believer  in  the  near  Millennium. 
He  evinces  in  his  journal  an  overweening 
spiritual  pride,  and  speaks  contemptuously 
•)£  other  professors,  especially  the  Quakers 
yhom  he  met  in  his  travels.  The  latter, 
on  the  contrary,  seem  to  have  looked 
favorably  upon  the  Labadists,  and  uni 
formly  speak  of  them  courteously  and 
kindly.  His  journal  shows  him  to  have 
been  destitute  of  common  gratitude  and 
Christian  charity.  He  threw  himself  upon 
the  generous  hospitality  of  the  Friends 
wherever  he  went,  and  repaid  their  kind 
ness  by  the  coarsest  abuse  and  misrepre 
sentation. 

NOTE  78,  page  364. 

Among  the  pioneer  Friends  were  many 
men  of  learning  and  broad  and  liberal 
views.  Penn  was  conversant  with  every 
department  of  literature  and  philosophy. 
Thomas  Lloyd  was  a  ripe  and  rare  scholar. 
The  great  Loganian  Library  of  Philadel 
phia  bears  witness  to  the  varied  learning 
and  classical  taste  of  its  donor,  James 
Logan.  Thomas  Story,  member  of  the 
Council  of  State,  Master  of  the  Rolls,  and 
Commissioner  of  Claims  under  William 
Penn,  and  an  able  minister  of  his  Society, 
took  a  deep  interest  in  scientific  questions, 
and  in  a  letter  to  his  friend  Logan,  written 
while  on  a  religious  visit  to  Great  Britain, 
seems  to  have  anticipated  the  conclusion 
of  modern  geologists.  "  I  spent,"  he  says, 
"  some  months,  especially  at  Scarborough, 
during  the  season  attending  meetings,  at 
whose  high  cliffs  and  the  variety  of  strata 
therein  and  their  several  positions  I  further 
learned  and  was  confirmed  in  some  things, 
—  that  the  earth  is  of  much  older  date  as 
to  the  beginning  of  it  than  the  time  assigned 
in  the  Holy  Scriptures  as  commonly  un 
derstood,  which  is  suited  to  the  common 
capacities  of  mankind,  as  to  six  days  of 
progressive  work,  by  which  I  understand 
certain  long  and  competent  periods  of  time, 
and  not  natural  days. "  It  was  sometimes 
made  a  matter  of  reproach  by  the  Anabap 
tists  and  other  sects,  that  the  Quakers  read 
profane  writings  and  philosophies,  and 
that  they  quoted  heathen  moralists  in 
support  of  their  views.  Sluyter  and  Dan- 
kers,  in  their  journal  of  American  travels, 
visiting  a  Quaker  preacher's  house  at 
Burlington,  on  the  Delaware,  found  "  a 
volume  of  Virgil  lying  on  the  window,  as 
if  it  were  a  common  hand-book  ;  also  Hel- 
mont's  book  on  Medicine  (Ortus  Medicines, 
id  esi  Initia  Physica  inaudita  progressus 
medecince  nowts  in  morborum  ultionam  ad 


,  whom,  in  an  introduction 
they  have  made  to  it,  they  make  to  pass 
for  one  of  their  own  sect,  although  in  his 
lifetime  he  did  not  know  anything  about 
Quakers."  It  would  appear  from  this  that 
the  half -mystical,  half-scientific  writings  of 
the  alchemist  and  philosopher  of  Vilverde 
had  not  escaped  the  notice  of  Friends,  and 
that  they  had  included  him  in  their 
broad  eclecticism. 

NOTE  79,  page  364. 

"  The  Quaker's  Meeting,"  a  painting  by 
E.  Hemskerck  (supposed  to  be  Egbert 
Hemskerck  the  younger,  son  of  Egbert 
Hemskerck  the  old),  in  which  William 
Penn  and  others  —  among  them  Charles 
II.,  or  the  Duke  of  York  —  are  represented 
along  with  the  rudest  and  most  stolid  class 
of  the  British  rural  population  at  that 
period.  Hemskerck  came  to  London  from 
Holland  with  King  William  in  1689.  He 
delighted  in  wild,  grotesque  subjects,  such 
as  the  nocturnal  intercourse  of  witches  and 
the  temptation  of  St.  Anthony.  What 
ever  was  strange  and  uncommon  attracted 
his  free  pencil.  Judging  from  the  portrait 
of  Penn,  he  must  have  drawn  his  faces, 
figures,  and  costumes  from  life,  although 
there  may  be  something  of  caricature  in 
the  convulsed  attitudes  of  two  or  three  of 
the  figures. 

NOTE  80,  page  366. 

In  one  of  his  letters  addressed  to  his 
friends  in  Germany  he  says  :  "  These  wild 
men,  who  never  in  their  life  heard  Christ's 
teachings  about  temperance  and  content 
ment,  herein  far  surpass  the  Christians. 
They  live  far  more  contented  and  uncon 
cerned  for  the  morrow.  They  do  not  over 
reach  in  trade.  They  know  nothing  of 
our  everlasting  pomp  and  stylishness. 
They  neither  curse  nor  swear,  are  temper 
ate  in  food  and  drink,  and  if  any  of  them 
get  drunk,  the  mouth-Christians  are  at 
fault,  who,  for  the  sake  of  accursed  lucre, 
sell  them  strong  drink." 

Again  he  wrote  in  1698  to  his  father  that 
he  finds  the  Indians  reasonable  people, 
willing  to  accept  good  teaching  and  man^ 
ners,  evincing  an  inward  piety  toward  God, 
and  more  eager,  in  fact,  to  understand 
things  divine  than  many  among  you  who 
in  the  pulpit  teach  Christ  in  word,  but  by 
ungodly  life  deny  him. 

"It  is  evident,"  says  Professor  Seideu- 
stecker,  "  Pastorius  holds  up  the  Indian  as 
Nature's  unspoiled  child  to  the  eyes  of  the 
'  European  Babel,'  somewhat  after  the 
same  manner  in  which  Tacitus  used  the 
barbarian  Germani  to  shame  his  degenerate 
countrymen. " 


474 


NOTES. 


As  believers  in  the  universality  of  the 
Saving  Light,  the  outlook  of  early  Friends 
upon  the  heathen  was  a  very  cheerful  and 
hopeful  one.     God  was  as  near  to  them  as  j 
to  Jew  or  Anglo-Saxon  ;   as  accessible  at  < 
Timbuctoo  as  at  Rome  or  Geneva.      Not 
the  letter  of  Scripture,  but  the  spirit  which 
dictated  it,  was  of  saving  efficacy.     Robert 
Barclay  is  nowhere  more  powerful  than  in  ! 
his    argument    for    the    salvation   of    the 
heathen,  who  live  according  to  their  light, 
without  knowing  even  the  name  of  Christ. 
William  Penn  thought   Socrates  as  good  a 
Christian  as  Richard    Baxter.      Early  Fa 
thers  of  the  Church,  as  Origen  and  Justin 
Martyr,  held  broader  views  on  this  point  j 
than  modern  Evangelicals.     Even  Angus-  | 
tine,  from  whom  Calvin  borrowed  his  theol 
ogy,  admits  that  he  has  no  controversy  with  j 
the    admirable     philosophers,     Plato     and 
Plotinus.     "Nor  do  I  think,"   he  says  in  j 
De  Civ.  Dei.,  lib.  xviii.,  cap.  47,  "  that  the  , 
Jews  dare  affirm  that  none  belonged  unto 
God  but  the  Israelites." 


NOTE  81,  page  418. 

This  ballad,  originally  written  for  J.  R. 
Osgood  &  Co.'s  Memorial  History  of  Bos 
ton,  describes,  with  pardonable  poetic  li 
cense,  a  memorable  incident  in  the  annals 
of  the  city.  The  interview  between  Shat- 
tuck  and  the  Governor  took  place,  I  hart 
since  learned,  in  the  residence  of  the  latter, 
and  not  in  the  Council  Chamber. 


NOTE  82,  page  420. 

This  name  in  some  parts  of  Europe  is 
given  to  the  season  we  call  Indian  Sum 
mer,  in  honor  of  the  good  St.  Martin.  The 
title  of  the  poem  was  suggested  by  the  fact 
that  the  day  it  refers  to  was  the  exact  date 
of  the  Saint's  birth,  the  llth  of  November. 


NOTE  83,  page  421. 

See  Tylor's  Primitive  Culture,  vol.  iL 
pp.  32,  33*.  Also  Journal  of  Asiatic  Society, 
vol.  iv.  p.  795. 

NOTE  84,  page  426. 

The  picturesquely  situated  Wayside  Inn 
at  West  Ossipee,  N.  H.,  is  now  in  ashes; 
and  to  its  former  guests  these  somewhat 
careless  rhymes  may  be  a  not  unwelcome 
reminder  of  pleasant  summers  and  autumns 
on  the  banks  of  the  Bearcamp  and  Clio- 
corua.  To  the  author  himself  they  have  a 
special  interest  from  the  fact  that  they 
were  written,  or  improvised,  under  the  eye, 
and  for  the  amusement  of  a  beloved  inva 
lid  friend  whose  last  earthly  sunsets  faded 
from  the  mountain  ranges  of  Ossipee  and 
Sandwich. 

NOTE  85,  page  457. 

"He  [Macey]  shook  the  dust  from  off 
his  feet,  and  departed  with  all  his  worldly 
goods  and  his  family.  He  encountered  a 
severe  storm,  and  his  wife,  influenced  by 
some  omens  of  disaster,  besought  him  to 
put  back.  He  told  her  not  to  fear,  for  his 
faith  was  perfect.  But  she  entreated  him 
again.  Then  the  spirit  that  impelled  him 
broke  forth:  'Woman,  go  below  and  seek 
thy  God.  I  fear  not  the  witches  on  earth, 
or"  the  devils  in  hell ! '  "  —  Life  of  Robert 
Pike  page  55. 

NOTE  86,  page  461. 

I  have  attempted  this  paraphrase  of  the 
Hymns  of  the  Brahmo  Somaj  of  India,  as 
I  'find  them  in  Mozoomdar's  account  of 
the  devotional  exercises  of  that  remark 
able  religious  development  which  has  at 
tracted  far  less  attention  and  sympathy 
from  the  Christian  world  than  it  deserves, 
as  a  fresh  revelation  of  the  direct  action  of 
the  Divine  Spirit  upon  the  human  heart. 


INDEX. 


Abraham  Davenport,  312. 

Abram  Morrison,  425. 

Adjustment,  452. 

A  Dream  of  Summer,  109. 

After  Election,  351. 

A  Lament,  135. 

A  Lay  of  Old  Time,  214. 

All  's  well,  151. 

A  Memorial,  M.  A.  C.,  284. 

A  Memory,  199. 

AMONG  THE  HILLS,  325,  327. 

Amy  Wentworth,  273. 

A  Name,  430. 

An  Autograph,  449. 

Andrew  Rykman's  Prayer,  281. 

Angel  of  Patience,  The,  96. 

Angels  of  Buena  Vista,  The,  119. 

Anniversary  Poem,  267. 

Answer,  The,  337. 

April,  167. 

Artist  of  the  Beautiful,  An,  461 

A  Sabbath  Scene,  168. 

A  Spiritual  Manifestation,  356. 

Astraea,  165. 

Astraea  at  the  Capitol,  265. 

At  Eventide,  416. 

At  Last,  447. 

At  Port  Royal,  268. 

At  School-Close,  416. 

Autumn  Festival,  For  an,  260. 

Autumn  Thoughts,  144. 

A  Woman,  374. 

A  Word  for  the  Hour,  261. 

Banished  from  Massachusetts,  456. 

Barbara  Frietchie,  269. 

Barclay  of  Ury,  121. 

Barefoot  Boy,  The,  195. 

Battle  Autumn  of  1862,  The,  266. 

Bayard  Taylor,  429. 

Bay  of  Seven  Islands,  The,  435. 

Benedicite,  163. 

Birchbrook  Mill,  454. 

Branded  Hand,  The,  65. 

Brewing  of  Soma,  The,  373. 

BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK.  THE,  16. 

Brook,  The,  432. 

Brother  of  Mercy,  The,  303. 

Brown  of  Ossawatomie,  258. 

Bryant  on  his  Birthday,  323. 

Burial  of  Barbour,  211. 

Burns,  186. 

By  their  Works,  432. 

Calef  in  Boston,  1692, 144. 
Call  of  the  Christian,  The,  92. 
Cassandra  Southwick,  28. 


Centennial  Hymn,  409. 

Chalkley  Hall,  107. 

Changeling,  The,  304. 

Channing,  132. 

CHAPEL  OP  THE  HERMITS,  153. 

Charity,  398. 

Chicago,  372. 

Child-songs,  391. 

Christian  Slave,  The,  50. 

Christian  Tourist,  The,  147. 

Christmas  Carmen,  A,  393. 

Cities  of  the  Plain,  The,  86. 

Clear  Vision,  The,  331. 

Clerical  Oppressors,  49. 

Cobbler  Keezar's  Vision,  270. 

Common  Question,  The,  322. 

Conduct,  434. 

Conductor  Bradley,  390. 

Conquest  of  Finland,  The,  213. 

Corn-song,  The,  117. 

Countess,  The,  275. 

Crisis,  The,  79. 

Cross,  The,  166. 

Crucifixion,  The,  86. 

Cry  of  a  Lost  Soul,  The,  283. 

Curse  of  the  Charter-Breakers,  The,  76. 

Cypress-Tree  of  Ceylon,  The,  108. 

Daniel  Neall,  137. 

Daniel  Wheeler,  136. 

Dead  Feast  of  the  Kol-Folk,  The,  421. 

Dead  Ship  of  Harpswell,  309. 

Dedication  (to  Songs  of  Labor),  112. 

Democracy,  105. 

Demon  of  the  Study,  The,  124. 

Derne,  164. 

Disarmament,  374. 

Divine  Compassion,  339. 

Dole  of  Jarl  Thorkell,  The,  332. 

Double-headed  Snake  of  Newbury,  The,  228. 

Dream  of  Argyle,  The,  394. 

Dream  of  Pio  Nono,  The,  189. 

Dream  of  Summer,  A,  109. 

Dr.  Kane  in  Cuba,  396. 

Drovers,  The,  114. 

Easter  Flower  Gift,  An,  460. 

"  Ein  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott,"  262. 

Elliott,  146. 

Emancipation  Group,  The,  423. 

Eternal  Goodness,  The,  318. 

Eva,  166. 

Eve  of  Election,  The,  236. 

Exiles,  The,  37. 

Extract    from    "A    New    England    Legend,1 

127. 
Ezekiel,  83. 


476 


INDEX. 


Familist's  Hymn,  The,  35. 

Farewell   of  a  Virginia  Slave   Mother  to  her 

Daughters  sold  into  Southern  Bondage,  The, 

56. 

Female  Martyr,  The,  90. 
First-Day  Thoughts,  172. 
First  Flowers,  The,  215. 
Fishermen,  The,  115. 
Fitz-Greene  Halleck,  410. 
Flowers  in  Winter,  196. 
Follen,  96. 

For  an  Autumn  Festival,  260. 
Forgiveness,  121. 
Fountain,  The,  36. 
Freedom  in  Brazil,  338. 
Friend's  Burial,  The,  384. 
From  Perugia,  258. 
Frost  Spirit,  The.  91. 
Fruit  Gift,  The,  198. 
Funeral  Tree  of  the  Sokokis,  31. 

Garibaldi,  350. 
Garrison,  428. 

Garrison  of  Cape  Ann,  The,  221. 
Gift  of  Tritemius,  The,  235. 
Giving  and  Taking,  415. 
G.  L.  S.,338. 
Godspeed,  447. 

Golden  Wedding  of  Longwood,  The,  391. 
Gone,  139. 

Grave  by  the  Lake,  The,  299. 
Greeting,  A.  Harriet  Beecher  Stowers   Seven 
tieth  Anniversary,  1882,  443. 

Hampton  Beach,  127. 

Haschish,  The,  201. 

HAZEL  BLOSSOMS,  380,  383. 

Healer,  The,  393. 

Help,  433. 

Henchman,  The,  412. 

Hermit  of  the  Thebaid,  The,  186. 

Hero,  The,  193. 

Hill-Top,  The,  140. 

Hive  at  Gettysburg,  The,  352. 

Holy  Land,  The,  81. 

HOME  BALLADS,  218. 

Homestead,  The,  453. 

Howard  at  Atlanta,  353. 

How  the  Robin  came,  455. 

How  the  Women  went  from  Dover,  437. 

Human  Sacrifice,  The,  102. 

Hunters  of  Men,  The,  48. 

Huskers,  The,  116. 

Hymn,  415. 

Hymn  for  the  American  Horticultural  Society, 

446. 
Hymn  for  the  Celebration  of  Emancipation  at 

Newburyport,  357. 
Hymn  for  the  House  of  Worship  at  Georgetown, 

340. 
Hymn  for  the  Opening  of  Plymouth  Church, 

St.  Paul,  Minnesota,  394. 
Hymn  for  the  Opening  of  Thomas  Starr  King's 

House  of  Worship,  1864,  323. 
Hymn  of  the  Dunkers,  407. 
Hymn  sung  at  Christmas,  285. 
Hymns,  88. 
Hymns  of  the  Brahmo  Somaj,  46L 

Ichabod, 146. 
In  Memory,  144. 
In  Peace,  162. 
In  Quest,  387. 


In  Remembrance  of  Joseph  Sturge  238 

In  School-Days,  350. 

In  the  "  Old  South,"  408. 

Invocation,  166. 

Inward  Judge,  The,  433. 

Italy,  283. 

"  I  was  a  stranger  and  ye  took  me  in,"  416. 

John  Quincy  Adams,  396. 
John  Underbill,  385. 
Jubilee  Singers,  The,  423. 
June  on  the  Merrimac,  406. 

Kallundborg  Church,  307- 

Kansas  Emigrants,  The,  200. 

Kathleen,  171. 

Kenoza  Lake,  248. 

Khan's  Devil,  The,  424. 

KING'S  MISSIVE,  THE,  418. 

King  Solomon  and  the  Ants,  413. 

King  Volmer  and  Elsie,  377. 

Kinsman,  392. 

Knight  of  St.  John,  The,  81. 

Kossuth,  172. 

Lady  Franklin,  396 

Lake-side,  The,  139. 

Lament,  A,  135. 

Last  Walk  in  Autumn,  The,  208. 

Laus  Deo,  316. 

Lay  of  Old  Time,  A,  214. 

Laying  up  Treasure,  431. 

Legend  of  St  Mark,  The,  142. 

Leggett's  Monument,  111. 

Le  Marais  du  Cygne,  243. 

Lexington,  409. 

Library,  The,  412. 

Light  that  is  felt,  The,  460. 

Lines,  198. 

Lines  accompanying  Manuscripts  presented  to  a 
Friend,  129. 

Lines  for  an  Agricultural  Exhibition,  249. 

Lines  for  the  Burns  Festival,  247. 

Lines  from  a  Letter  to  a  Young  Clerical  Friend, 
70. 

Lines  (inscribed  to  Friends,  etc.),  200. 

Lines  on  a  Fly-Leaf ,  339. 

Lines  on  the  Adoption  of  Pinckney's  Resolu 
tions,  75. 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  S.  0.  Torrey,  134. 

Lines  suggested  by  reading  a  State  Paper,  192. 

Lines  suggested  by  a  visit  to  the  City  of  Wash 
ington  in  the  12th  month  of  1845,  68. 

Lines  written  for  the  Anniversary  of  the  First 
of  August,  at  Milton,  1846,  55. 

Lines  written  for  the  Celebration  of  the  Third 
Anniversary  of  British  Emancipation,  1837, 
55. 

Lines  written  for  the  Meeting  of  the  Antislav- 
ery  Society  at  Chatham  Street  Chapel,  New 
York,  1834,  54. 

Lines  written  in  the  Book  of  a  Friend,  71. 

Lines  written  on  hearing  of  the  Death  of  Silas 
Wright,  of  New  York,  128. 

Lines  written  on  reading  Pamphlets  published 
by  Clergymen  against  the  Abolition  of  the 
Gallows,  100. 

Lines  written  on  reading  the  Message  of  Gov 
ernor  Ritner  of  Pennsylvania,  1830,  52. 

Lines  written  on  the  Departure  of  Joseph 
Sturge,  395. 

Lost  Occasion,  The,  422 

Lucy  Hooper,  131. 


INDEX. 


477 


Lumbermen,  The,  118. 

Maids  of  Attitash,  The,  305. 

Mantle  of  St.  John  de  Matha,  The,  314. 

Marguerite,  376. 

Mary  Garvin,  202. 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia,  62. 

Maud  Muller,  204 

Mayflowers,  The,  211. 

Meeting,  The,  334. 

Meeting  Water?,  The,  397. 

Memorial,  A,  284. 

Memories,  141. 

Memory,  A,  199. 

Men  of  Old,  The,  148. 

Merrimack,  The,  26. 

Minister's  Daughter,  The,  430. 

MIRIAM,  341. 

Mithridates  at  Chios,  266. 

Mo-30  MEGONE  (Parts  I.,  IT.,  III.},  1. 

Moloch  in  State  Street,  160. 

Moral  Warfare,  The,  57. 

Mountain  Pictures  (Parts  I.,  II.),  278. 

Mulford,  460. 

My  Birthday,  372. 

My  Dream,  1U5. 

My  Namesake,  215. 

Mv  Playmate,  233. 

My  Psalm,  242. 

My  Soul  and  I,  92. 

Mystery,  A,  389. 

Mystic's  Christmas,  The,  442 

My  Triumph,  351. 

My  Trust,  431. 

Naples,  1860,  277. 

Nauhaught,  The  Deacon,  348. 

New  Exodus,  The,  201. 

New  Hampshire,  59. 

New  Wife  and  the  Old,  The,  40. 

New  Year  :  addressed  to  the   Patrons  of  the 

Pennsylvania  Freeman,  60. 
Night  and  Death,  397. 
Norembega,  347. 
Norsemen.  27. 
NOTES,  451. 

Old  Burying-Ground,  The,  240. 

On  a  Fountain,  433. 

On  a  Prayer-Book,  244. 

On  a  Sun-Dial,  433. 

On  receiving  an  Eagle's  Quill  from  Lake  Supe 
rior,  141. 

Our  Autocrat,  428. 

Our  Country.  Read  at  Woodstock,  Conn.,  July 
4,  1883,  448. 

Our  Master,  319. 

Our  River,  280. 

Our  State,  150. 

Over-Heart,  The,  237- 

Overruled,  414. 

Paean,  73. 

Pageant,  The,  369. 

Palatine,  The,  310. 

Palestine,  82. 

Palm-Tree,  The,  246. 

PANORAMA,  THE,  175. 

Pass  of  the  Sierra,  The,  212. 

Pastoral  Letter,  The,  53. 

Peace  Autumn,  The,  317. 

Peace  Convention  at  Brussels,  The,  149, 

Peace  of  Europe,  The,  161. 


PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM,  THE.  358,  360. 

Pentucket,  34. 

Pictures,  163. 

Pine-Tree,  The,  68. 

Pipes  at  Lucklow,  The,  241. 

Poet  and  the  Children,  The,  446. 

Poor  Voter  on  Election  Day,  The,  170. 

Prayer  of  Agassiz,  The,  383. 

Prayer-Seeker,  The,  354. 

Preacher,  The,  249. 

Prelude  (Among  the  Hills),  325. 

Prelude  (King's  Missive),  418. 

Prelude  (Pennsylvania  Pilgrim),  369 

Pressed  Gentian,  The,  414. 

Prisoner  for  Debt,  The,  99. 

Prisoners  of  Naples,  The,  159. 

Problem,  The,  417. 

Proclamation,  The,  266. 

Proem,  iv. 

Prophecy  of  Samuel  Sewall,  223. 

Pumpkin,  The,  126. 

Quaker  Alumni,  The,  254. 
Quaker  of  the  Olden  Time,  The,  98. 
Questions  of  Life,  157. 

Rabbi  Ishmael,  445 

Randolph  of  Roanoke,  104. 

Ranger,  The,  206. 

Rantoul,  188. 

Raphael,  130. 

Red  Riding  Hood,  413. 

Red  River  Voyageur,  The,  247. 

Reformer,  The,  98. 

Relic,  The,  64. 

Remembrance,  170. 

Rendition,  The,  197. 

Requirement,  432. 

Requital,  4*)9. 

Response,  417. 

Reunion,  The,  459. 

Revelation,  451. 

Revisited,  321. 

Reward,  The,  130. 

River  Path,  The,  284. 

Robin,  The,  375. 

Rock  Tomb  of  Bradore,  The,  440. 

Sabbath  Scene,  A,  168. 

Saint  Gregory^  Guest,  450. 

St.  John,  32. 

St.  Martin's  Summer,  420. 

Sea  Dream,  A,  388. 

Seed-time  and  Harvest,  151. 

Seeking  of  the  Waterfall,  The  404. 

Shadow  and  the  Light,  The,  234. 

Ship-Builders,  The,  112. 

Shoemakers,  The,  113. 

Singer,  The,  371. 

Sisters,  The,  249,  375. 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride,  225. 

Slave-Ships,  The,  43. 

Slaves  of  Martinique,  The,  77. 

SNOW-BOUND,  286. 

Song  of  Slaves  in  the  Desert,  200. 

Song  of  the  Free,  47. 

Song  of  the  Negro  Boatmen,  269. 

Spiritual  Manifestation,  A,  355. 

Stanzas  for  the  Times,  51. 

Stanzas  for  the  Times.  — 1850,  168. 

Stanzas  —  Our  Countrymen  in  Chains,  46. 

Star  of  Bethlehem,  The,  87. 

Storm  on  Lake  Asquam,  441. 


478 


INDEX. 


"Story  of  Ida, ;' The,  449. 
Summer  by  the  Lakeside,  183. 
Summer  Pilgrimage,  A,  439. 
Summons,  The,  278. 

SUMNER,  381. 

Sunset  on  the  Bearcamp,  404. 
Swan  Song  of  Parson  Avery,  The,  229. 
Sweet  Fern,  455. 
Sycamores,  The,  227. 

Tauler,  190. 

Telling  the  Bees,  226. 

TENT  ON  THE  BEACH,  THE,  294. 

Texas,  66. 

"  The  Laurels,"  356. 

"  The  Rock  "  in  El  Ghorv  244. 

Thiers,  410. 

Thomas  Starr  King,  324. 

Three  Bells,  The,  379. 

Thy  Will  be  done,  261. 

To  a  Friend  on  her  Return  from  Europe,  95. 

To  A.  K.,  151. 

To  a  Southern  Statesman,  74. 

To  C.  S.,  199. 

To  Delaware,  123. 

To  Englishmen,  264. 

To  Faneuil  Hall,  67. 

To  Frederick  A.  P.  Barnard,  341. 

To  Fredrika  Bremer,  167. 

To  G.  B.  C.,  248. 

To  H.  P.  8.,  434. 

To  John  C.  Fremont,  263. 

To  J.  P.,  108. 

To  J.  T.  F.,245. 

To  Lydia  Maria  Child,  353. 

To  Massachusetts,  67. 

To  my  Friend  on  the  Death  of  his  Sister,  138. 

To  my  old  Schoolmaster,  173. 

To  my  Sister,  144. 

To (with  a  Copy  of  Woolman's  Journal1 

109. 

To (Lines  written  after  an  Excursion),  115 

To  Pennsylvania,  212. 

To  Pius  IX.,  145. 

To  Ronge,  106. 

To  Samuel  E.  and  Harriet  W.  Sewall,  261. 

To  the  Memory  of  Charles  B.  Storrs,  133. 

To  the  Memory  of  Thomas  Shipley,  74. 

To  the  Reformers  of  England,  97. 

To  the  Thirty-Ninth  Congress,  317. 


Toussaint  L'Ouverture,  41. 

To  W.  L.  G.,  47. 

Trailing  Arbutus,  431. 

Trinitas,  239. 

Truce  of  Piscataqua,  The,  231 

Trust,  170. 

Two  Angels,  The,  411. 

Two  Elizabeths,  The,  457. 

Two  Loves,  The,  460. 

Two  Rabbis,  The,  333. 

Utterance,  432. 

Valuation,  446. 
Vanishers,  The,  321. 
Vaudois,  Teacher,  The,  91. 
Vesta,  392. 

Vision  of  Echard,  The,  399. 
Voices   The,  192. 
Voyage  of  the  Jettie,  426. 

Waiting,  The,  278. 

Watchers,  The,  263. 

Wedding  Veil,  The,  398. 

Well  of  Loch  Maree,  143. 

What  of  the  Day,  214. 

What  the  Birds  said,  315. 

What  the  Traveler  said  at  Sunset,  442. 

What  the  Voice  said,  122. 

Wife  of  Manoah  to  her  Husband,  The,  85. 

William  Forster,  187. 

William  Francis  Bartlett,  411. 

Wilson,  444. 

Winter  Roses,  446. 

Wish  of  To-day,  The,  150. 

Wishing  Bridge,  The,  441. 

Witch  of  Wenham,  The,  401. 

Witch's  Daughter,  The,  218. 

Within  the  Gate,  423. 

Woman,  A,  374. 

Wood  Giant,  The,  452. 

Word  for  the  Hour,  A,  261. 

Word,  The,  432. 

Wordsworth,  162. 

World's  Convention,  The,  57. 

Worship,  123. 

Wreck  of  Ri vermouth,  297. 

Yankee  Girl,  The,  46. 
Yorktown,  70. 


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